


A Sliver of Light Left Over

by peasantswhy



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Grief, Hope, Multi, Recovery, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 96,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15322077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy
Summary: Erestor arrives in Mithlond on the eve of the Last Alliance.





	1. Prologue: On the Shore

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as something of an experiment-- I just wanted to see how these two compelling characters would react to each other.  
> 3k words, maybe 4k. 5k max. 
> 
> Aaaannnnddd here we are.

The first time he saw Gil-galad was after the world had already ended.

Oil-slick waves curled and receded over tattered banners and the blistered, splintered remains of their homeland. Anything that could be burned was burning already, or, if not, was crushed beyond recognition. Ancalagon’s broken spine slumped in the distance, the ruins of Thangorodrim coughing up its last plumes of smoke. That was another thing—Thangorodrim visible from the shoreline. At this rate, Thangorodrim would _be_ the shoreline, and then, after that, who knew? Maybe the rest of the world would follow, would tumble away into the sea.

All around the Ñoldor Camp wounded, weary elves scrapped together whatever they had left and huddled close, the weak sun just barely breaking through the smog to light their way. At least they didn’t want for firewood, though few desired fire even in the chill of the coming evening.

Song, when it could be heard over the gurgling fires and keening gulls, rose up weak and thin for a few desperate notes before fading away. After the final battle multitudes of choruses, hoarse voices had lifted strong and sure—but now the sea lapped at the mounds of fresh earth where those who had guarded the Simarils lay and a white thread of smoke drifted over all that was left of Maedhros Fëanorion. After that—that final horror—not even Eönwë wanted to sing.

Erestor stood among the ragged dunes and watched Maglor Fëanorion as he swayed in the sea. He stood hip-deep in the swells, back turned to the shore. He had not moved for some time, so Erestor waited. He was the last of Maglor’s household, for Maglor had released those who had not perished in the War from their eight-pointed stars at last, whether they willed or nay. But Erestor had been with Maglor since before the Simarils had even existed and he would not leave now.

The sunlight turned a bruised purple as it sunk lower in the west. Maglor’s shoulders heaved up—once, twice— and he began to sing. His voice fluttered, hitched, limping on broken ankles. Erestor felt tears spiking hot in the corner of his eyes—he thought he was done crying. Perhaps not.

Another elf, scorched at the edges, trudged up the dunes to join him. Elrond’s hair, half charred, hung low over his eyes and Erestor could hear his heavy, smoke-wounded breathing as he struggled up the dune.

“My Lord,” Erestor murmured, and reached out a hand to help him up.

“Erestor,” Elrond leaned heavily on his arm, coughing. Erestor looped his arm around Elrond’s waist and, not for the first time, wondered in awe at the solid weight of a living, breathing elf beside him. Living, actually _living,_ seemed an oddity to him these days.

Together they stood on the dune and watched Maglor. He had a knife in his hands now, and lifted it to slowly cut off chunks of his hair and release them into the waves.

“Will you follow him?” Elrond asked.

Erestor nodded. “Wherever he goes. I do not think he will stay here long.”

Elrond gave a little cough, his throat hoarse. “Good. Keep him safe.”

“I will.” Erestor replied, a little wry. Safety was another oddity to him. “Though I do not know how long he will let me.”

Elrond’s jaw tightened. “As his son and heir, I am commanding you to ignore him if he tells you otherwise.” He turned to Erestor, his arm clenching tight around his shoulder. “As your friend, I am begging you. Bring him back, if you can.”

Erestor leaned close and pressed his forehead to Elrond’s. The smell of smoke rose sharp in his nose, and under that, the spice of incense. Elrond’s breath wavered, his still so young frame leaning hard against Erestor’s side. Erestor closed his eyes and let Elrond’s warm, heavy weight ground him. “I will try. The first I believe I can accomplish, the second, I do not think so. He is too deep in his sorrow for peace, not even from you and Elros. But I will send you messages when I can, and perhaps time will lessen his burden, or give him the strength to carry it better.”

Elrond slumped, relenting. “Alright. May the gods protect you, since they seem to be back in the business of doing so again.”

Erestor felt his lips curl in a tired smirk. “As you say.”

Maglor rocked back and forth in the waves. Then he looked over his shoulder to the shore and made his slow way back to land. Erestor caught him watching them, but he neither called to them nor lifted his hand in greeting. Sorrow hooded his face from revealing any further thoughts. Instead of joining them he turned southward and began walking along the cracked beach, his song threading out behind him in low, fragmented strains.

Elrond squeezed Erestor’s arm. “Go. I’ll have someone follow with supplies.”

Erestor squeezed back, took a deep breath, and began to slide down the dune to follow his Lord.

And that was when he heard it—a deep, clear horn, a sound like a drawn-out heartbeat, or the first push of Eönwë’s huge wings as he lifted from the ground. A sound like clear, clean water, like the return of something lost. Erestor turned to look back up the beach and saw an elf cantering up to the camp on a huge grey charger, followed by a retinue of clean, if haggard, guards. The weary elves of the camp lifted their heads, brightening. Even the wounded struggled up from their pallets and looked toward the newcomer.

Even from that distance Erestor could see the clarity in his sharp grey eyes, the steadiness of his shoulders in the midst of the crumbling camp. He had his long hair, colored the strange shadowless gold of wheat on a cloudy day, tied back in a high-tail and on his brown sat a simple, but unmistakable, crown. When he dismounted in front of the central tent Erestor almost imagined that he could feel ripples coming from his feet hitting the ground.

“Is that the King?” Erestor turned back to Elrond, whose face had broken out into a relieved smile.

“One of them, yes.” Elrond replied, his smile full of equal parts fondness and esteem. “Is Finarfin still on these shores? That is his great-grandson, Gil-galad.”

“Gil-galad,” Erestor repeated. He saw the banner one of the guards carried, a field of stars on midnight blue. Before, he had only seen that banner from a distance, deep in the thick of the fighting. Now, seeing its master, he paused to consider the tales he had heard of the last of Middle Earth’s Ñoldorin kings. They were the sorts of tales the elder among them kept close, kept in a sort of sacred memory. Eärendil and Vingilótë were for the young, the hopeful—tales of salvation and miracles. Gil-galad was for the old and weary—a last well of strength in the face of slow, grinding destruction.

Erestor looked up to the young King—young! By the gods, he was so young— and watched as he turned to the wounded and began tending them. Erestor noticed his tunic caught strangely around his broad shoulders, he must have some hidden wounds of his own. Curious. Perhaps those fireside tales were something to believe after all.

Elrond began making his way back to camp. “Fair travels, Erestor!” he called behind him. “May we meet again soon!”

Erestor looked away from the King back to Maglor, who shuffled down the beach, his feet dragging long gouges in the sand. His song drifted, lost amongst the waves.

Erestor spared one last look for Elrond. “May it be so!” He called back, and set out after his Lord.

 ~*~

Later that night, when Maglor finally fell into an exhausted sleep, Erestor looked up to see the smog clearing and the unbearably bright pinpricks of stars returning. His thoughts wandered to that young King, to the way the elves at camp leaned toward him like flowers toward sunlight. He wondered about what kind of King he would make, how he would care for his devastated people.

The stars washed clear over the sky, pure as raindrops. Erestor was not one who gave much thought to hope, or to recovery, but somehow the sight of those stars and the memory of those silver-grey eyes gave him comfort.


	2. Introductions

The second time he saw Gil-galad was only a few years before the world ended again.

The sun had just risen into a thin spear of golden light when Erestor finally made his way into Mithlond. The city cracked its tired eyes open at his approach, stretching and yawning around him. Bakers stoked their fires and merchants organized their wares before the morning rush. Gulls wheeled over the docks as the night-fishers came in with their catch, crackling and squealing with glee as dockside butchers tossed them spare bits of intestine and skeleton. The city guard switched watches, the dull grey of the Night Watch exchanged for the blue and orange of the Day Guard. Sea and wood and tide, spice and flame and the unmistakable, sharp smell of living people—Erestor wrinkled his nose, missing for a brief moment the open clearness of pines, of empty stone and water. No time for solitude now, nor time to dwell on it.

He wrapped his tatter-worn cloak closer around his shoulders and elbowed his way past a few Night Watch elves loitering on a street corner, grumbling a perfunctory “Excuse me.”

“Excuse yourself,” One elbowed back, sneering. His fellows eyed Erestor with equally baleful glares. A few merchants lifted their heads from their stalls, smelling trouble. Erestor suppressed a groan. Not an hour in the city and already he wished he was gone. He ducked his head with a mumbled apology and pushed forward, turning down a half-remembered alleyway towards the palace.

If, indeed, it could be called a palace. The last time Erestor was here the palace was only half-built, but even so it had promised to be a subdued affair, only a few arched hallways, enough to be practical and certainly a long way from extravagant. Erestor remembered feeling perplexed as well as unimpressed—Gil-galad, apparently, was surprisingly austere for a Ñoldor. Where any of Tirion’s many palaces could be seen for miles, spiring high above the city in mother-of-pearl and gold, Gil-galad’s few towers were only distinguishable from those around them by the midnight-blue banners snapping from their peaks. Those same towers still stood now, but Erestor lost sight of them in the narrow alley and had to rely on instinct to push himself forward.

Erestor turned a corner around a rug merchant’s stall to find a sandstone wall rising before him, carved with reliefs of horses and wingless dragons. He sidled up close to it to avoid the growing crowd, ducking in the lee of its shadow. He ran his hand over the rough surface, tracing a stallion’s curling lip. No jewels, no pearls—Finwë would be appalled. But then again, Gil-galad was far enough down the line that perhaps some tendencies had thinned out by now. Erestor followed the edge of the wall, his fingers rough on a dragon’s spiny back, until he arrived at a tall arch framed by guards. The front gate— his memory proved true. He nodded in greeting to the guards and slipped inside the palace gates.

After only a few steps inside the gates Erestor found himself enveloped in calm quiet, light dappling silently down from the trees. He blinked, a little shocked, and took in the deep, cool greenness around him. Last he was here this had been a mess of building supplies and scraggly seaside-plants. Now the grounds looked like they extended for a good few square miles, filled with towering cypress trees and stone-rimmed pools. Thick, fragrant grasses grew up beside lily pads, home to darting dragonflies and shimmering frogs. The murmur of unseen streams mingled with the early-morning chirrups of birds, which flitted like crackling sparks through the upper branches. Swans, the legacy of Olwë, floated like ghosts through the deep green shadows, glinting like diamonds whenever a stray sunbeam found them. A miniature Neldoreth, girdled by those tall, pale walls—perhaps Gil-galad had some excesses after all. The palace sprawled like a cat in the middle of a copse of ancient willows, all swirling sandstone and a forest of outdoor corridors and pillars circling the inner courts. The overhanging cypress trees reached out their long arms over the length of the grounds, the tips of their unshorn fingers dipping into open arches and windows. Erestor took a deep breath through his nose, taking in the scent of cool water and growing things, warm sunlight on cool stone and the sharp tang of incense running beneath. He relaxed a little, glad to be out of the city and welcomed into this unexpected sanctuary.

He padded along a wide avenue running from the gates through the forest, ducking around a few early courtiers and guards. He could not linger, however much he might want to do so. The Court wouldn’t properly convene until evening, when Gil-galad would hold audience with his nobles and councilors. Erestor hoped this would be over with by then and he gone into the wilderness with new purpose, or that Elrond would tuck him away here with a promise of respite before calling him to duty once more. The city, magnificent as it was, grated at him—though these grounds would be worth a pause once his errand was accomplished, if he had time.

The main doors to the palace hung open as maids and cooks trafficked in and out, carrying all the mundane trappings of the household. A few fresh-faced laundresses parted around him like a flock of geese, their arms piled high with clean linens, and a cook’s apprentice chased down an escaping chicken. Erestor felt like a stone in the middle of a stream, worn and out of place amongst the waking folk of the house.

He flagged down a passing courier. “Please, give this message to Lord Elrond Peredhel. Tell him Erestor has returned, and has news.”

The courier took in his tattered clothes and regarded him with a dubious look. Erestor narrowed his eyes and added, “Be quick about it.”

“Wait here,” she said, still unsure of the bedraggled stranger, and gestured to a nearby alcove tucked away along the outer wall. Inwardly, Erestor sighed. An outer alcove, not even a proper waiting room. This promised to be tedious. Nevertheless he nodded to her in thanks as she disappeared back into a cluster of cooks herding an ox.

The little alcove had a patch of sunlight warming the stone bench inside, and perhaps waiting outdoors wasn’t so bad after all. The stone glowed a warm pinkish-red, like the blushing edges of a conch shell. He settled down in the crook of the wall and stretched out his legs, weariness catching up with him. In the east the sun grew hot and a chorus of birds raised their voices in the trees and flowering bushes. He closed his eyes and let the sunlight revive him like an unfurling leaf.

His feet ached. The last few thousand years had seen little rest as he trailed after his troubled Lord, wandering over what must have been the entire length and breadth of Middle Earth. Through forest and over fen indeed—not to mention mountain, desert, canyon, hedgerow and field. Maglor’s sorrow proved weighty indeed, and it seemed to Erestor that he walked not so much to run away from it but to find space to hold it all. He kept mostly to the wilds and Erestor, unwilling to leave him lest he lose him forever, scraped together food and shelter for the two of them from the rocks and lichen as they limped along. It was not for many years after their initial parting from Elrond that Erestor was able to get a proper message back. Maglor did not speak much, and when he sang his voice wavered in an aching keen scraped from his lungs. Erestor knew not what to do to comfort him so he didn’t try—besides, he didn’t know that _anything_ could comfort his Lord, and it was enough work to keep them living in the first place that Erestor didn’t know if he possessed the wherewithal to do much more than that.

But the moon rose and fell, and the sun after it, and Maglor slowly returned from his deep sorrow—though Erestor knew he kept the path back to it open. His was not the kind of sorrow that one could put to rest forever. Still, he revived somewhat, and they were able to make something of a living. After awhile Erestor convinced him to return to Elrond, and to visit his nephew Celebrimbor, and they passed a few sweet years that way. Elrond welcomed him back with open arms and kisses, and Celebrimbor with delighted laughs and bone-crushing hugs—and in secret Erestor began a count of all the times Maglor forgot himself and smiled.

But Ost-in-Edhil fell, and Celebrimbor—the only blood family left to him— died in agony, and darkness fell. Maglor’s heart once more burdened him in the dark hours of the night and he paced the halls of Imladris like an animal, his grief caging him with iron bars. So they left Imladris once more to seek work for their hands to stave off the weariness a bit longer. To his great sorrow Erestor had not seen Elrond since then, even if they still exchanged letters when possible. However, Erestor found that he didn’t feel entirely alone, for as they passed through the Kingdoms of Men he saw a few glimpses of a certain shade of sable hair, of amber eyes. Elros’ blood lingering still, surrounding Erestor with warmth even in a crowd of strangers.

Erestor yawned, dozing in the alcove as his thoughts moseyed through his mind. His time with Maglor was finished. There would be a new age in his life, though he knew not what it would entail. It was prudent, therefore, to catch a nap. His eyelids drooped and his breathing evened and slowed.

He had drifted into a true reverie before the courier sprinted up to him, panting. “I—” she began, out of breath. “I apologize for the wait, my Lord. This way, please.”

Erestor blinked awake. The sun burned overhead; it was still morning, but only just. He stood and followed her into the palace, away from the Main Hall hung with tapestries and into a small side court, where she held the door open and bowed. “My Lord Elrond awaits.”

“Thank you,” Erestor nodded back and turned into the room just in time to catch an armful of very joyous elf.

“Erestor!” Elrond clasped him close, the lean strength of his body drawing him up in a fierce hug. “How are you, my friend?” He pulled back to examine Erestor, clucking his tongue at his tattered clothes and tangled hair.

Erestor indulged him and smiled. “I am well. You received my letter?”

Elrond’s face shuttered closed with nervousness. “Yes. You said everything is all right?” He glanced behind Erestor, but there was only emptiness in the hall. “He is not with you,” he said, frowning.

Erestor shook his head. “No, he is not. But do not worry, I will tell you all.”

Elrond led him to a low couch, his hand gripping Erestor’s hard. When they sat down he kept ahold of his hand, kneading Erestor’s knuckles. “So tell me.”

Erestor took a breath. “He has sailed at last. Or, rather, he has gone.”

All the air left Elrond’s chest in a low sigh. “At last.”

“Eönwë came to us and spoke with him.” Erestor remembered the whirlwind of wings, brilliant and sudden as a cluster of fireworks, descending down out of a storming sky. Erestor had shielded his eyes but Maglor just stood there, back straight as the horizon, waiting. “He came to invite Maglor back home, back to where he could finally find a measure of peace.”

“But why now?” Elrond asked, his brows drawing down.

Erestor shrugged. “He wouldn’t have accepted, before. I think it has taken all this time for him to be ready to leave.” Eönwë had been gentle as a dove, concealing Maglor behind half a dozen tawny wings, cooing and singing in soft chords. And, infinitesimal jerk by shuddering jerk, Maglor’s shoulders had relaxed and he leaned into Eönwë’s gentle embrace. _Tell Elrond I love him more than anything and that I’m sorry,_ he had said, his voice clearing over the susurrus of feathers. Then Eönwë had tucked that slight, ragged form into the many folds of his robe and disappeared.

Erestor squeezed Elrond’s hands, stilling their restless movement. “His last words to me were to tell you that he loves you, and that he’s sorry.”

Elrond took a deep, heavy breath through his nose. “I’m sorry too, though I find comfort in knowing that he’s finally ready to rest.” His voice held together, but his lips trembled.

Erestor bowed his head. “It’s good, knowing he’s safe,” he said.

Elrond leaned close and touched his forehead to Erestor’s, and they sat in silence together. Tiny tears dropped down into Erestor’s lap from Elrond’s face, dripping over their clasped hands to disappear into the fabric of his robes.

“You’ll see him again.” Erestor murmured.

Elrond nodded, stiff, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Even so.”

Erestor gripped his hand. “Even so.”

Elrond gathered himself, his breath evening out from its stuttering. “Well my friend, will you follow him? Will you return to Valinor?” He let go of Erestor’s hands to rub his thin robes between his thumb and forefinger. “At the very least we will have to get you new clothes, and some food. You’re looking very thin.”

Erestor snorted. “I will say much of my Lord’s wisdom, but he was not exactly useful when it came to basic survival.”

Elrond chuckled. “Very true. Here, would you like some wine? Some tea, perhaps?” He stood to walk to a small side table, where a decanter of wine and a small tea set lay.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Erestor replied.

Elrond nodded. “Black or green?” He lifted his hands to fiddle with a large silver urn, turning a spigot on one side.

“Green, please.” Erestor relaxed carefully against the back of the couch, aware of his filthy clothes. Everything in this room was covered in rich, embroidered fabrics and tapestries, open windows framed with gossamer curtains swaying softly in the flower-scented breeze. By its size this must be a court—it was big enough to fit fifty—but by the furnishings it looked more like a sitting room, or a family room for a noble. Low couches and tables clustered in little circles, and side tables, laden with various homely accouterments like cups and flowers, lined the walls. Elrond fussed over one of them, pouring a stream of steaming water from the urn into a small teacup.

“What’s that?” Erestor asked, gesturing to the urn.

“A _samovar._ A gift from our Dwarven friends.” He returned to the couch and gave Erestor a cup of pale green tea. “There are little compartments hidden away inside for hot coals. Invaluable in the wintertime, I tell you.”

Erestor sipped the tea slowly, sighing at the feel of hot water sliding down his throat. “Indeed.” The ceramic cup burned his fingers, but after ages of cold springs and stones he welcomed it.

Elrond sat back down next to him, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robes.

“As you your first question,” Erestor continued, “I do not yet know. My duty to Maglor’s house, you see,” he looked sideways at Elrond, “Has not yet ended. I came not only to give you news, but also to inquire what you would further require of me.”

Elrond chuckled. “You place a great burden on me, old friend. I feel I should send you home to rest,” his hand came once more to rest on Erestor’s arm. “But I find I have missed your company and your wisdom both.”

“Then I will stay with you and your House.” Erestor gave a little smile, hesitant and secretly hopeful.

Elrond beamed. “Then do not call me cruel when you once more grow tired,” he replied, delighted. “I am a busy person, and will require the fullness of all your many talents.”

“Why would I complain?” Erestor hid his smirk in his teacup “I assume the King’s Herald will have the means to pamper me greatly in return for my service. I expect nothing less as your longest-serving, most-beloved servant.”

Elrond laughed at that. “Too true! But forgive me if I make you earn your keep. You will have heard that trouble is rising—enough trouble to drag me away from my beloved Imladris. We will have need of you. What say you, Councilor?”

Erestor raised his eyebrows. “A promotion?”

“As if you weren’t my most trusted advisor already.” Elrond waved his hand, dismissive of Erestor’s humility. “But yes, a promotion, or something like it. You will join me in the King’s court. This evening, if you are up for it.”

Erestor snorted. “Elrond Peredhel, you retain the hastiness of your Mannish blood. You know your father and I have been in and among the Kingdoms of Men recently? Your brother lives in every fleet-footed street urchin I saw.”

Elrond’s answering smile was melancholy and fond, his gaze drifting a little into the distance. “I have no doubt you tell true,” he replied, a little slump in his shoulders. “But it is fortuitous that you have been among them recently—for that is the topic of tonight’s discussion. You may be new, but nonetheless I expect you will have some _opinions,_ ” this with a sidelong glance, “and I hope you will not be afraid of expressing them. You are under my purview, and I trust your judgment. I am not afraid of you landing on your feet if some squabbles should arise.”

Erestor refrained from rolling his eyes. “I will behave myself.”

Elrond’s face was a mask of innocence. “I never said you wouldn’t. At any rate, will you join tonight? I believe it will be a rather informal event, but you know how these “informal” events go.”

Erestor nodded. “So long as I have time for a bath and a nap— and as my current clothes are unfit for company I hope you will not present me to the court naked.”

Elrond stood, lips curled into a smile despite—or maybe because of— Erestor’s impishness. “I will do no such thing. Come, I have had quarters prepared in advance for your arrival, and I will call for my tailor to whip up something for you.”

 ~*~

Elrond took the time to escort him personally to the tailor, a beleaguered young thing who clearly had miles of talent but had not yet lived long enough to pull himself into something approaching sufficiently organized.

“Erestor, this is Lindir. Lindir, this is my Councilor, Erestor.” Elrond introduced them, and Erestor inclined his head in greeting. Lindir made a deep bow in return, fidgeting. “He’ll tell you he prefers black,” Elrond continued, “but please see if you can get him into something brighter, will you?” He turned to Erestor. “Once you’re done here I’ll take you to your rooms. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he backed out of the door to make further arrangements.

Lindir reached for a bolt of green cloth, but Erestor stopped him with pointed cough and a flat glance. “You will do no such thing.”

Lindir took one look at Erestor and put the cloth back. “As you wish, my Lord,” he sighed.

Lindir had his measurements in a matter of minutes, at which time Elrond reappeared in the doorway. After thanking Lindir, he led Erestor out down the twisting, labyrinthine halls to the residential quarters.

“Here are your rooms for now,” Elrond said, opening a small door into a cozy-looking room with windows opening into a private courtyard. “We’ll transfer you into something more permanent here soon. In the meantime, please rest,” he gestured to the bed and a large copper tub filled with steaming water.

Erestor eyed the tub with longing. “One more thing, Elrond,” he said, just as Elrond turned to leave. “Will I have a formal introduction with the King? Is there anything in particular I should say?”

Elrond stopped, brief surprise crossing his face. “I suppose you haven’t met him officially, have you? Very well, I will fetch you a little earlier and introduce you to him before the Council begins. As to what you should say, I don’t think there’s anything in particular you need acknowledge. You are known to him already, and I will explain whatever he doesn’t yet know. In the meantime, enjoy your bath.” He closed the door behind him and left Erestor in blessed silence.

The bath was every bit as wonderful as promised, hot water deep enough to cover his knees and lap at his chest. _Oh,_ the feeling of _soap_ in his _hair—_ it had been decades since he had last washed his hair properly, a crime worthy of death in his mind. Steam rose around him in plumes, scented with thyme and lemon. He actually found himself humming, all the weariness of the road sluicing off him with the grime and dust.

Beside the tub sat a tray of cold meats and bread, with some strong yellow cheese and fruit to accompany it. He wolfed it down, heedless of the crumbs dribbling down into the tub, and leaned back to enjoy the last of the warmth with a glass of strong new wine in his hand.

Erestor was not necessarily surprised that Elrond would wish to have him as a proper member of his household, but it took a little while to get used to the sudden change in life circumstances. Maglor hadn’t needed any council beyond _Please my Lord, come in from the cold,_ or _We should_ not _stay at the highly suspicious inn for the evening._ Of course, in the Age of the Trees and in the First Age he had needed plenty of council, not only with the other branches of the Ñoldor but his own brothers—those cantankerous, complicated, magnificent Fëanoryn. Maglor’s House functioned like a proper House then, a strong spoke on the spinning wheel of politics and, later, war. Erestor was a trusted, loyal advisor—as he had been for thousands of years before—and therefore was one of the few Maglor trusted with the twins.

The lip of the tub dug into Erestor’s back and he shifted, adjusting.

Oh, the _twins._

Erestor had watched the sun rise for the first time all those centuries ago, but his life had remained dark until he met the twins. Erestor never divulged his favoritism to others, but he wasn’t ashamed to know that _loved_ Elrond and Elros differently—and, in truth, _more_ —than anyone else. He _adored_ those bright, beautiful boys, ever since they were small and didn’t know better than to disturb the stuffy old storm-crow at his work. Maglor, in a way, had given him to Elrond, just as Fëanor had given him to Maglor when Maglor came of an age to form his own Household.

Yet, to be true, Elrond would undoubtedly prove the easiest to serve out of any of his Lords. Erestor let out a breath through his nose and sank deeper into the water, secretly very relieved Elrond had not sent him away. The wine swirled in the crystal of his goblet and he allowed himself a real, true grin—to work for Elrond would be an unmitigated joy. Elrond walked as if he held wisdom and gentleness overflowing in his arms like flowers, blooms of kindness and grace trailing behind him. It would be easy to serve him, not because Elrond would demand anything less of him than his other Lords, but because Erestor wouldn’t have to wonder if what he was being asked to do would… would be _evil,_ or cruel. Maglor wasn’t cruel, perhaps, but… well, Erestor was glad Elrond would have him. It relieved his spirit.

Besides, Aman bored him—the calming presence of the Valar tended to have that effect, and since the Fëanorian exodus it was doubtful that anything interesting would crop up anytime soon. He took a sip of wine and let it sit on his tongue. He would be required to pick up his critical Councilor’s mind once more, but he was woefully out of practice. Even though Elrond trusted him to behave himself (or not, Elrond was just as often delighted with his incivility as his charm) he was feeling rather ill-prepared. Hopefully Gil-galad was of a similar mind to Elrond, otherwise Erestor’s stay at Mithlond’s Court might be shorter than expected. Perhaps he should lie low this evening and learn the lay of the land before he made a fool of himself. He swallowed the last of the wine and ducked his head under the water, thinking.

Lindir snuck in sometime after Erestor finished his bath, placing a parcel on a side table with a persecuted bow. “I hope these are pleasing, my Lord,” he said. “Or at least satisfactory.” Then, under his breath, “I can’t please everyone.”

Erestor paused brushing his hair and glanced at the parcel. _Mostly_ black, but there was certainly something else Lindir was hiding. “They will do, Lindir. Thank you for your quick work on such a short notice.”

Lindir bowed. “My pleasure,” he said, and ducked out the door. Smart mouth on that one, though this was more likely a sign of his surpassing skill—such indulgence would never be shown to a mediocre tailor.

Erestor rose from his seat in front of the window and went to examine the package. _Very_ well done indeed. The rough silk, when he pulled the robe out to examine it, hung in thick midnight-black folds. The lining, however, was a delicate, pale eggshell color, designed to flicker in and out of view with his movement. It wouldn’t satisfy Elrond’s desire for a little more color, but perhaps Lindir had decided that Erestor was the more frightening of the two. Erestor smirked—wise as well as talented.

Erestor put the robe down, careful not to wrinkle it. Now that he was full and clean, the bed’s song to him rang louder and louder in his ears. He went willingly, and within a few short moments was fast asleep.

 ~*~

Elrond roused him just as a sliver of deep orange sunlight worked its way across his eyes.

“Wake up, dear Councilor.” He held a new cup of tea in his hands. “We have work to do.”

Elrond sat to the side as Erestor dressed, detailing a few pertinent items of business. “Tonight’s gathering, as I told you before, is to be an informal one, but I’m hoping a few troubling things will be cleared up in a…” he looked to Erestor, a long-suffering look on his face. “Satisfactory manner. These discussions have gone on too long for my liking, and there are a few who are deliberately clogging up progress I had hoped would be accomplished months ago.”

“What sort of discussions are we having?” Erestor asked, twining his hair back in his customary braids. Lindir had snuck in some subtle embroidery into his robes—little flowers and birds in black thread, the brat— and Erestor was feeling a little too ostentatious to be comfortable.

Elrond paused, his finger tracing the rim of his teacup. “Treaties and alliances,” he said, his voice revealing nothing further in its tone. “You will have heard, of course, that Sauron has risen again in the south?”

Erestor’s hands stilled. “I have. We saw something of him, or his hand. We were rather far south, as it happens.”

Elrond’s brows rose. “Were you? You’ll have to tell me more later—we are in desperate need of such firsthand information. As for tonight, there are some here who do not relish another war with Sauron, not that I relish such a thing myself. The King and I are wanting to “get a move on,” as my father would say, and to begin to lay the foundation of our hopeful alliances.” He sighed and rubbed at his temple with one hand, weary. “But neither do these fools relish the compromises that must be made in order to achieve the numbers we will need to defeat him.”

Erestor watched him, reading the letters of stress written in his lined brow and mouth, and waited for him to continue.

But Elrond merely let out a breath, his hand waving away the seriousness of his words. “But these are as of yet distant concerns, the sorts of subjects for casual after-dinner discussions and not full-blown council meetings. Nevertheless certain opinions may yet be swayed here where they would not be in court, and thus tonight is still important.”

“Will I join you for dinner, then?” Erestor tied off his last braid with a twist of black cord.

“Certainly, though we will meet the King first. Tonight’s dinner will also be a subdued occasion, but pay attention to the people who attend. Rumors are flying, and I imagine many of the city’s nobles will be sending out feelers in the coming weeks. You remember all the city’s Houses?”

Erestor gave him a flat look. “I am not _that_ out of practice. I remember, probably better than you do.”

Elrond gave a wry smile. “That’s probably true. Though once more I am shocked—how do you know so much about the inner workings of the city, and yet you have never met the King?”

“I don’t know,” Erestor took a last sip of his tea, shrugging. “Maglor always avoided the Court with a vengeance—I don’t know that anyone save you knew we were in the city half the time we were here. Then, later, we lived far away in Imladris with you, or in Ost-in-Edhil with Celebrimbor. I kept my own record of occurrences for my own sake—the wilderness can be terminally boring—but I suppose there was never a reason for us to cross paths before.”

Elrond pursed his lips. “How curious. Anyway, I’ll be interested to see what you think of each other.”

Erestor raised his eyebrows. “I will as well. It is one thing to see the ripples in the water, another to know the stone that caused them.”

Elrond nodded. “Too true. Come, let us be off. The day dims.”

 ~*~

Elrond took him down through a few long, spacious hallways before coming to a small door tucked away in a corner. Erestor observed the hallways around him with interest— they were less populated than the rest of the palace, yet decorated with older, richer tapestries and rugs. The door before them, while small, had a mother-of-pearl inlay in the smooth, dark wood, detailing a dragon eating its own tail.

Elrond knocked, then entered without waiting for a reply, impertinent brat. Erestor followed behind Elrond’s shoulder, his hands clasped before him and his chin tilted down in deference.

The door opened into a small office, in the middle of which sat an elf with his feet propped up on the edge of a large desk. The office, while well-apportioned, was surprisingly simple, housing only the desk, bookshelves, a fireplace, a small side-table, and, of course, its occupant—who, to Erestor’s eyes, seemed far too large a presence for such a small space. By the _gods—_ Erestor blinked, taken aback. The elf before him looked unassuming enough—handsome, yes, but not so tall nor so grand as some Erestor had known— and yet the hairs on the back of Erestor’s neck leapt up as if he had suddenly come upon a curled dragon, or a sleeping Vala.

Gil-galad—for that was who the elf before him must be—looked up from perusing a few papers. “How now, Herald mine,” he said, affecting a measure of sarcasm that managed to be both irritated at the intrusion and indulgently fond. “What do you have for me?” A breeze ran through a few open windows, ruffling a few stray strands of the washed-out golden hair on Gil-Galad’s head and sending a shiver up Erestor’s spine.

“I’ve come to introduce you to a very old friend of mine,” Elrond replied, dipping his head in an informal bow. “This is Erestor, recently of Maglor Fëanorion’s service and now of mine.”

Erestor bowed, full and low. “Your Majesty.”

Gil-galad didn’t reply. When Erestor lifted his head he met those steel-grey eyes and, for a moment, they regarded each other.

Gil-galad leaned back in his chair, his chin resting on one hand. His lips pursed as he took in his fill of Erestor. Erestor watched as his eyes flickered, roaming in a flash over Erestor’s face and body. Erestor felt nothing so much as broken down, sifted into each of his individual parts and catalogued for later.

Erestor took a breath through his nose and pushed down his initial discomfort, taking to opportunity to examine Gil-galad in return. He was much as Erestor remembered him from that brief glimpse those many years ago—the same tall, sturdy build and mute-gold hair, the same casual grace paired with an instinctual air of _kingship._ Only, he did not seem so young now. In fact, under those grey eyes Erestor was beginning to feel, well, not _young_ —he didn’t think anything this side of the sea could make him feel young— but _small_. He swallowed.

The King’s only ornamentation beyond his crown and the tight silver carcanet-collar—a sigil of his great-grandfather’s—were a handful of jeweled rings on his fingers. In Erestor’s experience these were most likely worn not for decoration, but to bestow as gifts upon those he favored. Gil-galad wore fewer rings than others he had known—five total— but the rings themselves were more expensive and of a finer make. His robes were simple, if elegant enough to befit his station, and his large frame filled them like it filled the room— like a living, liquid thing, a palpable presence. Erestor had the distinct impression that if there were hairs out of place on this elf (and there were a few, wisping out from his brow) it was not so much a product of carelessness as a conscious decision. He _allowed_ his hair to be messy. Who _was_ this elf?

Everything Erestor felt under the King’s gaze—the discomfort, the cracked-open vulnerability— spoke of a sharp, cunning mind. Alternately, Gil-galad’s demeanor with Elrond spoke of an inner well of softness, of gentleness and a perceptive, concerned eye towards others. Erestor’s habits of observation concerning Elrond—instincts now, after years of watching over his childhood— peered with sharp eyes at how Gil-galad treated him, searching for any missteps. Elrond had only had praise for his Lord and King, only love, and while Erestor preferred to make his own opinions he could now find no reason to doubt Elrond’s judgment. The looks between them spoke of a deep friendship, filled with care and sensitivity and tender, long-lived love. So _this_ was the one who had watched over Elrond in Erestor’s absence.

Erestor suddenly remembered seeing Gil-galad back on that ravaged battlefield, leaning down to cradle a wounded elf’s face in his hands. Erestor could not hear the words he said, but he could see the way pain slipped out of her eyes to make room for hope. Even then, from such a distance, all elves looked to him.

Still, Erestor felt his eyes narrow a fraction. By all signs a good King—no surprise there. What _was_ a surprise was the open frankness with which Gil-galad watched him, not even bothering to disguise his perusal as disinterest or any other politically safe emotion. He was either _exceptionally_ open about his actions and motivations, even with those he just met, or he was making a deliberate choice—a choice to let Erestor see and understand how he scrutinized him. For one so meticulous as Gil-galad seemed to be, Erestor assumed the latter. A strange choice, and certainly not one Erestor would think prudent—though perhaps this openness spoke more to how Gil-galad trusted Elrond than to anything special about Erestor himself.

Erestor threaded his fingers together and took in Gil-galad’s simple crown, the fine line of his mouth, the way his lips softened as he glanced to Elrond. Erestor’s shoulders relaxed. He decided Gil-galad was worthy of respect.

Erestor glanced at Elrond and noted, with a barely-suppressed eye-roll, Elrond watching the two of them with a sort of amused interest. Erestor had the distinct impression that Elrond viewed them much like a pair of cats that he had to persuade to get along, and that he was having his own entertainment at their expense. Erestor had not forgotten Elrond’s dangerous sense of humor, but he _had_ forgotten what it was like to be on the receiving end. Gil-galad, when Erestor looked back to him, quirked his mouth in gentle exasperation.

Elrond let them have their look of each other a few moments more before breaking the silence. “I’d like to bring him to the gathering tonight, if you like.”

Erestor gave him a flat look—impertinent, to ask with Erestor standing right there in the room.

Gil-galad, interestingly, was giving Elrond the same look, though it was paired with an edge of long-suffering resignation. “If you like,” he replied, then turned to Erestor. “I have heard much about you over the years. My Herald tells me you’ve a fine mind with an eye for statecraft. I wait with interest to hear your thoughts.”

Erestor blinked. Inherent in Gil-galad’s tone was the unspoken _Elrond likes you, so I like you. Do not disappoint me._ “Of course, your Majesty.” He inclined his head in a slight bow.

“Good!” Elrond smiled. “Shall we escort you to dinner then?”

Gil-galad glanced down at himself. “I think I shall have to change into something more appropriate, first. I will meet you there. Sit that one,” he nodded to Erestor, “Next to Lithwyn.”

“As you say. We will leave you in peace for now.” Elrond replied and then, with a hand on Erestor’s arm, he ushered them out of the room.

~*~ 

Elrond led them down the hallways back towards the busier part of the palace.

“So? What do you think?” He slipped his hold on Erestor’s arm to loop his hand around his elbow.

“I should think it is entirely too soon for any wise elf to have a complete opinion, my dear Elrond,” Erestor scoffed, evading the question while accepting Elrond’s hold on his arm. “Is he as indulgent with the rest of the court as he is with you?”

“I should think not,” Elrond chuckled. “Heralds are afforded a sort of leniency not given to most. Besides, I think he is rather private about his indulgences—you will not see such banter in Court.”

“I should hope so,” Erestor mumbled under his breath. “It would be a wonder to have any peace with the rest of Court knowing what you get away with. Really Elrond, did I fail so devastatingly in raising you? Your manners have left you.”

“Perhaps you could have succeeded, save that Maedhros’ leniency unraveled all your hard work.” Elrond replied, squeezing his arm. “But come, we will gather in Court briefly before supper, and I feel there are a few you should see before we eat.”

 ~*~

Elves milled around in the cavernous main Hall, forming little cliques of intellectuals, politicians, artists, reactionaries—Erestor noted and catalogued them as Elrond made his rounds and introduced him to the pertinent parties. He knew most of the elves already, either personally or by reputation, so introductions were mostly just a matter of reminding people that he existed.

Elrond didn’t mention Maglor or Erestor’s background, but more than a few disgusted looks lingered in their wake. Elrond, it seemed, got a pass from his Fëanoryn heritage, but Erestor the _kinslayer_ would receive no such leniency. Despite his knowledge of Court he had always been on the outside, never joining after the War ended. Now that he was on the inside he could feel resentment building around him like a wall of bricks. His favor with Elrond too was noted, and envied. When Elrond finally left his side to tend the King, Erestor found himself in the middle of a sea of cold faces.

By the time the servants ushered them in to dinner Erestor felt a frission of annoyance tapping along the back of his neck. He rubbed absently at his knuckles, picking at his food. Lithwyn, the elf Gil-galad had paired him with, proved to be a monstrous conversational partner. Rich, opinionated, and narrow-minded, he filled Erestor’s ears with tales of his latest economic conquests, his endless appetite for wealth matched only by his appetite for sweets—which, granted, Erestor could have met him there, but he _ate with his mouth open._ Erestor grit his teeth and held his tongue.

Sometime during the second course Erestor glanced up to the head of the table to see Gil-galad watching him over the rim of his glass. He remembered the King’s earlier words— _sit this one next to Lithwyn._ He narrowed his eyes. Lithwyn was a thrice-bedamned _test_ if he ever saw one. Gil-galad gave a barely perceptible twitch of his lips and turned to whisper something in Elrond’s ear. Erestor spent the rest of the dinner pretending to listen to Lithwyn and watching Gil-galad instead.

Something didn’t make sense—the Gil-galad sitting at the head of the table was as different from the elf in the back-hall office as ice from steam. He sat silent in his chair, observing the proceedings with a steel-edge to his demeanor. Gone was the fondness, the kingly gentleness and concern. In its place a blank coolness settled over his features, warming only at the servants at his side or a few select courtiers—though even this remained brief and taciturn. Occasionally he and Elrond would converse, and Elrond’s normally soft face would fall into severity at whatever words he whispered. Erestor believed in prudence and in keeping one’s thoughts close to one’s chest, but this was _excessive._

“Is the King normally this quiet?” Erestor interrupted another one of Lithwyn’s endless crumb-filled monologues.

Lithwyn glanced down the table. “You know, I don’t think so. He does look rather serious, doesn’t he? He’s not a gregarious one, to be sure, but he doesn’t normally frown quite so much as that.” He leaned in close, crumbs from his mouth falling on Erestor’s sleeve. “There _are,_ of course, all sorts of nasty rumors going about, perhaps he’s paying attention to them—though I wouldn’t worry about such things. You know, that reminds me, on the other side of the city there’s this rather—”

Erestor shut out the rest, appetite gone. Nasty rumors. That was one way to name Sauron. The frisson of annoyance flared— these fools apparently had an appallingly short memory. He hid his sneer in his wineglass and turned away to spy on Gil-galad and make something useful out of this wretched dinner.

The one blessing of the evening was that Lithwyn was apparently not invited to the after-dinner soiree. As the dining room cleared, a few elves lingered near the back door before trickling into a side-room to mingle until Gil-galad joined them. Erestor followed, ignoring the raised eyebrows, and took up a position along the wall of the room. A circle of couches and chairs sat in the middle of a rich rug, and the assembled nobles began sorting themselves based on power and privilege. Older, richer merchants sat heavily on the couches, flanked by the serpentine forms of the hardened politicians and scions of ancient, powerful families. Those few who remained standing were divided equally between those too lowly to deserve a seat and those who wanted to retain an overhead view of the proceedings. Erestor, (currently) one of the former, found a good nook for himself in the gap between two high-backed chairs with a view of the two empty seats obviously reserved for the King and his Herald. Not all of Gil-galad’s nobles were in attendance, but enough to comprise a sizeable portion. Erestor assumed that this was probably a single contingent, the primary body of an important faction. A _clique._ Gil-galad probably wanted to gage their reactions and responses before mixing them in with the greater whole. There were some outsiders, a few elves off to the side looking uncomfortable. A failsafe measure—neutral witnesses who could spread news to the Court without bias.

A low chatter diffused through the room, and a servant threaded carefully through the circled elves serving a thick, sunset-pink liquor. Erestor declined, and the servant scurried away just as Gil-galad and Elrond made their entrance. The seated elves rose at their approach and bowed—but in a tired, perfunctory manner, heaving themselves briefly up to their feet before plopping back down. A few even waved their hands as if to say _get on with it._ Erestor bristled, galled.

“Well, my Lords,” Gil-galad sat down in his chair, Elrond alighting on an ottoman beside him. “You will have heard there is some trouble brewing down south.”

“I should say so! I’ve lost two ships already this month.” One of the merchants piped up and Erestor cringed. Maybe Lithwyn _did_ deserve a seat here.

Elrond, to his credit, responded with a concerned frown and a nod. “I am sorry to hear that, Runilion. Have you heard reports from the lost ships, or is all gone for good?”

Runilion sighed and shook his head. “Nothing, save that my scouts returned home with a few bits of wreckage from the shores of Belfalas.”

Erestor narrowed his eyes. If he wasn’t mistaken, Belfalas was recently under the rule of Elendil’s son, Isildur and his kin— and unless that authority had faltered then Runilion was almost certainly committing insurance fraud.

Murmurs rose higher among the circle, a grating edge to the sound. This Runilion apparently armored his fleet better than most—fear trickled in to the edges of the assembled voices.

Gil-galad spoke, a slow, hot knife slicing through the noise. “Then you have heard the source of the trouble?”

“Yes. Sauron has returned.” A tall, stately elf sitting to Elrond’s right side replied. “It seems he is not content with the destruction of swaths of our countryside and the desolation of Númenor.” She folded her hands in front of her.

Someone on the far side of the circle scoffed under their breath. “At least we won’t have to deal with that crazy mortal on our own shores,” he said.

Elrond stiffened the tiniest amount. None other would have noticed, but Erestor knew Elrond’s movements like his own. Erestor bit the inside of his lip, teeth sharp. _Appallingly_ short memories. They were worse than the mortals they scorned. In the corner of his mind he ran through the list of teas Elrond preferred and selected one to find in the kitchens after this meeting. He thought, perhaps, that he and Elrond would need something hot and soothing to calm their humors once this nonsense was finished.

Gil-galad held up a hand, once more calming the room. “His kin still live, and dwell on these shores. I believe we would do well to welcome them and renew our commitment to the other Mannish Kingdoms of the south.”

“Al-Pharazôn’s kin? Here?” this from Runilion. His skin, a pale chicken-flesh color, flushed purple.

Erestor frowned. Elendil had been in Middle Earth for some time now—not yet long enough, perhaps, to have a true foothold, but long enough that such news would have reached Mithlond. _Definitely_ insurance fraud.

The room buzzed. Erestor looked around him, incredulous. Were these fools deaf as well as blind?

“You Majesty,” A soft voice rose from one of the chairs beside Erestor. The elf— named Ellín and of an old Sindarin House from Doriath, if he remembered correctly—crossed her long legs and shifted forward. “While I admire your hospitality and generousness in desiring to greet our ancient…” she pursed her mouth, as if tasting her words. “ _Acquaintances_ , might I advise caution? I worry that Sauron’s influence still persists. It would not be unlike him to use our compassion against us, and seek to destroy us from the inside.”

Ah, so now the dangerous ones made themselves known. _Kin_ made the slow descent into _acquaintances._ Only a few steps more to _strangers,_ then _interlopers._ In Erestor’s experience such pleas for self-preservation were rarely made for their own sakes. More often than not they cloaked a personal—often _business_ —interest. Erestor watched as the room leaned towards her, all their private greeds and selfishnesses made smooth and simple by her words.

“I concur, your Majesty,” Another sibilant voice joined Ellín’s. “Given that Runilion has already encountered losses from an unknown assailant, might it be wiser to wait? It could be that these Númenorean folk captured the ships for themselves.”

Elrond’s eyes glittered, yet he remained silent.

“Al-Pharazôn was a mad man, you Majesty,” another voice chimed in. “I don’t believe we can trust them, at least not until they have proven themselves sufficiently. After all, such twistings of the mind can pass from man to man—and Al-Pharazôn came from Kings! How much more may his weaker countrymen be susceptible?”

Affirming murmurs swept the room. Many in the room leaned to their neighbors, nodding their heads in agreement. Even the neutral parties watched the proceedings with consideration.

Erestor glanced to the door in longing. If Elrond had invited him here to punish him for not visiting more often, it was proving very effective. That frisson of annoyance sparked into anger and lit down his spine.

“It is well known that men more than elves are more susceptible to Sauron’s power,” Runilion, unable to resist hearing his own voice, continued. “I do not think it would be wise to treat with them at all.” Erestor scowled, and attempted to tamp down his anger.

And then, from across the room, Elrond looked at him. And the firelight caught his eyes, burnishing them lighter until they were the same soft amber with which Elros had looked at him all those years ago.

Runilion leaned forward, his hands out before him. “Or, if we were to treat, let it be under certain restrictions—”

“Are you finished?” Erestor snapped.

Runilion startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, are you finished?” Erestor crossed his arms. “Are you done insulting Lord Elros’ line? Or have you forgotten so quickly in whose presence you sit?”

Runilion’s mouth gaped, opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

“You _fools,_ are you so blind that you do not see the Peredhel in our midst? Or do you just take cruel liberties of my Lord’s graciousness? Perhaps you thought to take advantage of his kindness and patience but _I_ have neither and I will not stand for it. As for Al-Pharazôn, do you think that one man twisted by an evil power condemns a whole race? Or must I write down a list of all our past grievances?” Erestor felt his lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl. “If one condemns all, then we have been doomed for ages.”

“High words from a _kinslayer,_ ” Ellín replied, her teeth tight. Ah, there it was. She wasn’t _wrong_ to think thusly of him—no one in their right mind would be wrong to hate a kinslayer— but Erestor could be cold and cruel when he wished and right now, he very much _wished._

Erestor glared down at her, unyielding. “Perhaps they are, but does the mouth of a kinslayer make my words any less true? Nevertheless, if we are to start naming legitimate grievances, perhaps I shall name a few of those innocents doomed by Elu Thingol’s blindness and greed, not the least of whom being my Lord King’s esteeméd Uncle.”

Ellín’s face blanched and her hands tightened in her lap.

Erestor grinned, sharp and feral. “But I’m afraid that would take some time, and I do not want to waylay our Majesty from his duties for the next _week_. For now, let us dispense with the fantasies that we ourselves are immune to evil, and that your desire to withhold due friendship and succor to the refugees of Númenor is anything but a desire to preserve your own wealth and power.” Erestor met each and every one of the shocked eyes of the elves around him, staring them down. He could feel them gathering their combined ire against him like a wave, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Elrond’s shoulders relaxing—with that he pressed on. “Or what did you imagine this supposed “proof” to be, if not Elendil’s slavish obeisance to our supposedly superior elven nature? I suspect a fair number of you would have taken this opportunity to sign some profitable trade agreements with a desperate people.”

Runilion found his tongue at last. “How _dare_ you, how—”

“Shut _up_.” Erestor growled. “Two ships this month, you say? Well then, let us consider your words. Would Elendil and his folk, under intense persecution in Númenor for even thinking the word _Eldandil,_ think it prudent to attack elven vessels, even in dire need? You must think them less than dogs if you think thus. Which, of course leaves us two options,” he continued, watching the eyes in the room turn from him to Runilion. “Either your ships were attacked by brigands from the south, in which case Elendil would need our assistance now more than ever and we should with all haste go to his aid. But your vessels are well armored, or so I hear, and the likelihood that they perished by storm or by attack seems slim to me. Or do you imagine the Children of Men to be witches and sorcerers, that they could bring down such finely-equipped elven craft? If so, why paddle around in the shallows when there are so many bigger fish to catch—why prey on heavily armed elven merchant vessels when much succulent, recently-establish mannish encampments stand nearby? But I imagine that we might still find your lost goods among Elendil and his kin, along with receipts of sale at an exorbitant price. And, perhaps, were we to look through your own affairs, we would find a tidy sum from your insurer on the matter. I think I understand your hesitance now, my friend,” he bit out the words, the feel of them fire on his tongue. “Once a formal relationship with Elendil is established I imagine it will be very hard for you to control the prices on goods in the way you desire.”

Ellín’s voice, when it came, was a controlled monotone. “Such gross conjectures should not be tolerated in Court.”

“Really?” Erestor replied. “I thought you were all having a grand time doing just that, though I suppose such talk is permissible when it’s about _Men_ and not about _Elves._ ”

“I thank you, my Lords,” Elrond’s voice rose from the far side of the circle, quieting the gathering. “For your thoughts and concerns. It seems wise to me, however, to set aside this conversation until it can be properly heard by the Court as a whole. As to these legal matters, such things should be investigated by the proper authorities, not judged by an informal, after-dinner gathering.”

There was a ripple of confusion in the faces of the assembled, but none moved to contradict him. Runilion, his face very pale, looked ready to bolt at the soonest opportunity.

Elrond stood, and the seated elves followed. “I bid you good night, my Lords,” he said, his arms outstretched.

Rather than idle and converse, taking the opportunity to attempt to catch Elrond or the King’s private ear, the assembled nobles beat a rather hasty exit. The room drained within moments of the servants opening the door.

Inwardly, Erestor sighed. His anger, now sated, sputtered. While he did not regret his words he _had_ promised he would behave, and he imagined Elrond might be more than a little cross with him. He circled the tail end of the crowd, intending to return to his room and fall asleep before Elrond could scold him. Tea would have to wait for later.

Just as he turned to slip out the door, he heard a voice call his name.

“Erestor.” Gil-galad sat in his high backed chair, lit from behind with the light from the fireplace. He crooked at finger at him, beckoning.

Behind him a servant closed the door, and Erestor once more found himself enclosed alone with the King and his Herald. He padded back to Elrond’s side and gingerly took a seat. There was always the chance he had _grossly_ misread the situation, enough to warrant a scolding from the King himself.

Gil-galad leaned back in his chair, watching him. Then, slowly, a low, sun-warm smile spread across his face. “You know, Elrond, I do believe this is the best present you have ever given me.”

A servant appeared at Erestor’s elbow and poured a glass of deep, plum-purple wine from an old, dusty bottle, which he served to the King before turning to Elrond and Erestor.

Elrond took the offered glass with a self-satisfied smile. “I told you, he would not disappoint.” The servant set the wine bottle down on a low table and slipped out of the room.

Erestor held his own glass carefully in both hands. “I don’t suppose, my Lord, that you would like to explain to me what’s going on?” He kept his tone demure, but he shot a sharp look to Elrond.

Gil-galad laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Peace, Erestor. All is well—you have just done me a very great favor.”

Elrond chuckled. “Peace, old friend,” he said, laying his hand on Erestor’s arm. “What he means to say is that coalition we just met with has been giving us trouble for months on end, and you have cracked them open neatly as a walnut.”

Erestor glanced from Elrond back to Gil-galad, who regarded him still with that honey-low smile.

“And in less than a half-hour too!” Gil-galad raised a single eyebrow. “Magnificent. Though I think if you had waited a few minutes more you could have ensnared Lady Ellín as well, but no matter.”

Erestor took a sip of his wine, still unsure. His sharp tongue was rarely thusly rewarded. “How do you mean?” he asked.

Elrond sighed, a deep, satisfied sound. “The gathering of elves you just eviscerated represents a sizeable portion of the maritime merchants of Lindon. Recently, most of their traffic had been with Númenor and other Mannish kingdoms along the coast, at least until things started going poorly. As their profits dried up they unofficially formed a bloc to ensure their interests were being upheld in court.”

“Often,” Gil-galad added, “At the expense of Men, not to mention at the expense of basic decency. I have a feeling some of the smarter ones are draining their coffers and resources so they can sail West with the largest fortune they can accumulate before the war begins.”

Elrond nodded. “We’ve been trying for _months_ to break them up. When I heard you were coming back, I suggested we, uh, toss the fox in the chicken coop and see what happened.” He gave Erestor a sheepish grin, blushing.

Erestor gave Elrond the flattest look he could muster. “Tell me what I did, Elrond. Tell me how I failed you in your childhood, how all my lessons on civility and decency dissolved that you should treat me thus, tell me I might make it right—”

Gil-galad laughed at that, a true laugh from deep in his chest. “Peace! If you have failed, Erestor, then I am glad of it.”

Elrond chuckled along with him. “You didn’t fail. Rather, I think you taught me _too_ well. You were the only one who could corral Maedhros, and Maglor always told us bedtime stories of how he would send you to subdue Caranthir when he got too unruly.”

Gil-galad wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh, this is shaping up to be a wonderful evening. Do you know, Erestor,” he turned to him with a conspiratorial smirk. “That he offered you to me as a _birthday present?_ “Come now, Gil-galad, let me give this to you for your birthday. I promise you won’t be disappointed. Even if it doesn’t work it’ll at least be amusing.” By the gods, Elrond, you’ve never lied to me and I believe now you never shall.”

Erestor narrowed his eyes at Elrond. “Well I hope you enjoyed yourself, _my Lord,_ for I shall not be able to show my face in Court again. Fox in the chicken coop indeed.” Despite his outward prickliness, however, he felt a coal of satisfaction and pride glowing in his chest. He liked being… _used._ By the gods, he _liked_ it.

“Nonsense,” Elrond waved his hand, taking a sip of wine. “Whatever ire you have incurred will be half absorbed by Gil-galad’s well-marked indulgence for me, and therefore your burst of temper will fall under my purview and assumed discipline. The other half will dissipate, I’m sure, once Runilion’s finances are properly investigated. Which, by the way, good catch. We knew, of course, but didn’t have any opening to investigate.”

Erestor sipped his wine, the little coal in his chest burning hotter. “I will admit I’m glad I could be of some service, though I would appreciate a warning next time. Was Lithwyn part of this plot too?”

Gil-galad shrugged. “I had hoped you might glean some pertinent information about merchant patterns here in Mithlond from him, but I’d be lying if I didn’t also mention that I wanted to test you a little before the actual meeting.”

Elrond snorted. “He wanted to prime your anger and get the meeting over with quicker, is what he means.”

Erestor permitted himself to give a flat look to the King, who returned it with a wide grin. He took a small sip of his wine and tried _desperately_ not to roll his eyes.

The fire crackled in the grate, sweet incense suffusing through the room, and Erestor felt his neck heat under his collar. It was only now, despite his sarcastic overtures, that he was beginning to feel the true weight of Elrond and Gil-galad’s delight in him. He ducked his head over the rim of his glass, his hair falling forward to hide his blushing cheeks. How quickly had the evening turned.

Then the King lifted the wine bottle and leaned over to refill Erestor’s glass. Erestor froze, watching the wine fill his glass with wide eyes. He didn’t half dare to look up at Gil-galad, not trusting his jaw to not drop to the floor.

“You have done me a great service, Erestor.” Gil-galad’s voice swung low. The wine in his hand cast strange shadows over his fingers, and his grey eyes filled with some warm, undeterminable thing. “Not only for my sake, but for Elrond and Elros.” He reached out a hand to Elrond’s shoulder, squeezing it. Elrond leaned into the touch, tension trickling out of his body. Erestor regarded him, watching softness return to the lines around his mouth. Elrond was so cheerful, it was sometimes hard to recognize he had been carrying a great weight until it was gone.

“For too long have I asked my beloved Herald to bear the sting of those cruel barbs against his brother’s people,” Gil-galad continued, “and it grieves me that I could not put an end to them without engendering further malice toward Elendil and his kin—especially now, when they so desperately need our friendship. You have not only brought low those who would make themselves my enemies, but you have restored to me the ability to do right by your Lord. I do not take such service lightly. ”

Erestor looked to Elrond. His sharp tongue might be useful, but it couldn’t be _that—_

Gil-galad held out his hand. “Here. Give me your hand,” he ordered, and Erestor felt every part of his body flash hot.

He held out his hand and Gil-galad took it, his calloused palms rough against Erestor’s own weathered skin. Then Gil-galad took a ring off his own finger—a simple mithril band inlayed with tiny flashing opals— and pressed it into Erestor’s palm.

Erestor felt his breath stutter in his lungs, the coal in his chest catching, igniting up the edges of his ribs.

“If you should ever require a boon of me, ask, and I will give it.” Gil-galad closed Erestor’s fingers over the ring. He gave a slight smile. “Though perhaps it would behoove you to wait a week or so before wearing that. The silt needs to settle some.”

Erestor looked to Elrond, eyes wide— _you’ve got to be joking—_ but Elrond only smiled. “I knew I could trust you,” he said. “I needed you to fight for me, for Elros’ children, and I knew you would without my even having to ask.”

Erestor swallowed, _there must be some mistake_ sparking behind his teeth. He bit his tongue and then stood, sinking in the deepest, most formal bow he could remember. “You honor me, my King,” he said, not daring to look up at Gil-galad from where he knelt on the floor.

“You may rise,” Gil-galad said, a slightly amused lilt to his voice.

Erestor obeyed and sat back in his chair, legs weak.

“Do you know Elrond,” Gil-galad mused, “I don’t think I’ve seen that particular bow in an age? I believe the last time was when Eönwë bowed to Eärendil, all those many years ago.”

“He was always a stickler for these sorts of things,” Elrond mused, returning his hand to the crook of Erestor’s elbow. “Come now, Erestor, I realize I have been cruel to you in throwing you to the wolves this early, even though you fought them admirably. It is time I gave you the rest you so obviously deserve.” He stood, drawing Erestor up with him. Gil-galad followed, and together they went out through another, smaller door into the back hallways.

Candles jumped and danced in wall sconces, wax dripping down the stone walls. Elrond kept his hand on Erestor’s elbow, Gil-galad walking on the other side to bracket Erestor. Erestor felt surrounded, enveloped in all Elrond and Gil-galad’s thoughts. He kept his hand balled in a fist around the ring, not even daring to put it on.

“I arranged for your rooms to be moved to more permanent quarters,” Elrond said to Erestor. “Since you’re a member of my household, you’ll be right next to me. There’s an inner door that connects us, should I require you.”

Erestor nodded, glad.

They arrived at a fork in the hallways, and Gil-galad turned to them. “Goodnight, my Lords,” he said simply, and with a smile he turned down towards his own quarters.

“Goodnight, your Majesty,” Erestor replied, bowing, but Gil-galad was already gone, the long swish of his hair waving behind him. Erestor paused, still caught in a half-bow, and watched the light of the flames glint on the tines of Gil-galad’s crown before he disappeared into the growing gloom.

Elrond pulled his elbow. “You’ll forgive his taciturn farewell,” He said. “I think he thinks of it as a gift to those he likes— he doesn’t waste their time.”

Erestor rolled his eyes. “No excuse for rudeness,” he said, but there was no truth behind his voice.

Elrond snorted in halfhearted exasperation and tugged him away down the opposite fork, their footfalls soft on the carpet. “Tell me your thoughts, old friend,” he said as they arrived at a dead end in the hallway, three doors set in the three walls. Erestor noticed Elrond’s sigil in the stone above the center lintel, and a smaller, newly carved Fëanoryn star above the one on the right.

“I hardly know where to begin,” Erestor replied as Elrond led them inside the Fëanoryn door. “If your goal was to intergrade me into court quickly, then you have done an ungentle job of it.”

Elrond sighed. “I suppose you’re never going to let me live this down, will you?” he closed the door behind them with a _click._

Erestor chuckled. “One of the perks of all my long years, young one. I’ve gotten very good at _remembering._ ”

Elrond pinched his arm just as if he were a petulant child again, scowling fondly at Erestor. Then, with his long robes swishing on the thick carpet, he turned away to bank the fire in the hearth. A few coals yet breathed, wheezing out a few small, guttering flames. A servant had obviously laid it earlier, not anticipating Erestor to take quite so long in his audience with the King. Elrond took a poker and leaned over them, prodding and coaxing them back to life.

Erestor took in the rest of the room, turning in a slow circle. Small, with six tall walls, the room curled around them like a nest with pointed arches leading out to other rooms. This room, with its plush, low couches and tables, was obviously the sitting room, and Erestor was glad to see a samovar on a far table. Perhaps Elrond would teach Erestor how to use it, or perhaps his clever pupil would hold it hostage until he could wheedle out some favor or another. Windows overlooked a moonlight-drenched garden adjacent the main grounds, and Erestor could hear the sweet music of water flowing in some unseen fall nearby. Through a far door he could see a shadowed bedroom, a canopied bed painted silver with moonlight. Through another there sat a desk piled high with fresh, clean paper and vials of ink, feathered quills standing at the ready like a cluster of arrow fletches. All the rugs and tapestries hung thick with deep purples and greens, hints of red peeking through the threads in an iridescent shimmer.

He had not even set foot in a place such as this for centuries, much less called it his own. The richness would almost be unbearable, save that it was obviously a gift of love from Elrond, and he never could deny Elrond anything.

Speaking of _gifts—_

The ring _burned_ in his palm. All at once his steadiness faltered. One nap was not enough to prepare him for how overwhelming this day turned out to be. He supposed he should be used to this already—the Fëanoryn family dinners were easily twice as overwhelming as this— but it had been so long since, well—he huffed a laugh. He didn’t quite know _what_ he thought anymore.

Elrond lifted his head from the hearth. “Erestor? Are you all right?” he said.

“I’m fine,” he replied, and returned to Elrond’s side. “Just tired.”

It was the praise, he decided. Praise had always been his primary weakness. He knew Elrond loved him, respected him—but that he would… what was the word he used? _Gift_ him? Give him to the King? Trust him not only as far as himself, but as far as to recommend him to his Lord? All this fanfare, this splendor for a few sharp words to a crowd of fools. All this because Elrond could count on his… wisdom? His viciousness? It still didn’t _make sense._

Erestor snorted to himself, padding over to where Elrond sat slumped back on one of the couches. Elrond rubbed the bridge of his nose, his chest rising and falling in a deep sigh. A breeze drifted in from a cracked window, carrying with it the deep sleeping smell of green things slowly losing their heat from the day.

Erestor sat down next to him. “I wasn’t aware that having a sharp tongue was in such high demand.” He said, in lieu of asking _what’s so necessary about a cantankerous councilor?_ It wasn’t that he distrusted Elrond, or even Gil-galad’s assessment of the situation, but he simply didn’t _understand._ A good scolding, while necessary, hardly warranted a _boon._

Elrond shook his head. “We rather have an over-abundance of that, I think. No, we need more people who aren’t afraid.” He looked sidelong at Erestor through his fingers. “You remember the elf who mentioned Sauron’s return, and the destruction of Ost-in-Edhil and Númenor?”

Erestor nodded. “I remember.”

“She and I have known each other for some time now—she’s Teleri, and would often accompany me on my visits to my brother.” Elrond’s hand fell from his face to his lap, his long fingers worrying his hem. “I thought, once the bloc began forming, that she would defend them. Men. My kin. _Elros._ She did not.” He looked away into the flames, a sad sort of disappointment hovering around his mouth. “At several critical points in which I had hoped for her support, she failed me. She’s one of the reasons why the bloc is— _was_ so strong. Because she, and others like her, didn’t speak up. I do realize that you, perhaps, have less to lose than they, but consider this: you have also lost a great deal of potential. You have my ear, and I have the King’s—the influence you could have wielded has diminished. I think you realize this, realize the sacrifice you have made. You have lost as much as they might have in attempting the same feat. Yet, you have accomplished it—with swiftness and elegance, without my prompting. You deserve that ring, Erestor.”

Erestor brushed away a strand of hair from Elrond’s brow, a strange sort of dissolving feeling in his chest. “You must think little of me if you think that giving up a little influence compares to bringing a little light to your eyes,” he said, feeling uncharacteristically effusive despite his doubt.

Elrond chuckled. “Ah, you have left all your venom in the necks of those poor fools, and now there is only sweetness left.”

“Don’t count on it,” Erestor replied, tugging the strand. “You did set me up, after all. I feel I can’t take total credit.” He decided to let his doubt drop for now, to pick it up when he had time to exercise it properly.

Elrond rolled his eyes. “Put the damned ring on, Erestor. If I don’t see it on your hand tomorrow I’ll throw a fit.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Erestor scolded, but he finally opened his hand. The ring glittered in the low firelight, slick as a trout’s rainbow skin. He slipped it onto his right thumb—Gil-galad must have large fingers compared to his slim writer’s hands.

Elrond yawned, stretching his shoulders like a cat. “I better let you sleep. Tomorrow I’ll send over some memos for you to look over, but I think I should let you settle in properly. Besides, I think we need to maintain the fiction that I’m corralling you. We’ll be able to join Court again properly in a few days.”

Erestor nodded. “Very well, my Lord.”

Elrond heaved himself up with another little half-yawn, and walked to a door next to the hearth. “Goodnight,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“My Lord.” Erestor gave a slight nod. Elrond smiled over his shoulder at him and slipped into his own rooms, the door closing with a muffled _thump._

Erestor wandered over to his own rooms, kicking off his shoes in the corner and letting the rug fluff up between his toes. He kept rubbing the ring, the middle and pointer fingers of his right hand twisting down to brush their writing callouses against the smooth mounds of the opals.

Later, when he finally went to bed, he held his hand up to the moonlight until his arm grew tired, just watching that multicolored flame flicker on his thumb.


	3. Questions

The night before they left for Elendil’s Court, Erestor had a revelation.

He stood at the foot of his bed, gathering clothes for the morrow’s journey, finally alone with his thoughts after a grueling day. He laid out his robes on the bed, carefully folding them in thin tissue paper before setting them aside to pack. Ordinarily, Lindir or one of Lindir’s assistants would do so for him, but Erestor saw the dark circles under the harried elf’s eyes and sent him off to sleep. Besides, Erestor had no energy left for most company and folding his own clothes had a rhythm to it, an organizational principle that calmed him. He shook out his thoughts and folded them up, tucking them away in their proper places.

One thought however, refused to be catalogued—it pricked at him like a grain of sand in the soft oyster-meat of his mind. He lifted another robe from the pile and laid it out, tucking the sleeves back and smoothing the seams. Outside his open window crickets whistled to themselves, a distant chorus of bullfrogs groaning in reply. The thought tumbled in his mind, a stone wearing smooth in the surf, clattering over the rest of his thoughts in roughshod urgency. He took out another sheet of tissue paper, glowing a pale blue in the twilight light, and set it against the dark red silk on his bed. In the same way he took the thought and held it up to the light, examining the many spider-webbed tendrils branching from it.

_Why had Gil-galad given him the ring?_

Elrond had explained _how_ Erestor’s actions functioned in the dissolution of the bloc, and why such actions might be considered sacrificial and courageous—But why was it so _important_? What was it about a little tongue-lashing that merited such a response? Yes, defending Elros’ people was important. Yes, they needed the bloc to dissolve in order to make their alliances. Yes, everything Elrond said was true, but it wasn’t a _whole_ truth, wasn’t _enough—_

His whole vision of the King hinged on this one interaction. Erestor felt, deep inside himself, that if he didn’t come to an understanding about it he would have failed in some essential, intrinsic way.

He prodded at the question, waiting for an answer to lock into place, but none came. Sighing, he set down the folded robe atop the pile.

There had been a burst of initial confusion after that night—was Gil-galad so desperate as to trust such an apparently important task to a stranger? But blocs like the one he had cracked must not be uncommon in Gil-galad’s rule, nor, he had realized over the weeks, very important. The peace and prosperity Erestor saw in Lindon spoke to the power of Gil-galad’s uncontested rule, not the struggle of a King barely keeping his Court in line.

Erestor turned away from the robes, rubbing the ring in what had now become an entrenched habit. The bloc would have broken one way or another, he had realized, no group could survive over-long with self-interested members like Ellín and Runilion. Powerful they may be, but in truth they were little more than greedy fools, scrabbling at whatever shiny baubles they could get their hands on before the inevitable war began. Nothing serious, not for one such as Gil-galad. Therefore it stood to reason that cracking it was not an important task in and of itself. Even if there was a bit of time-sensitive pressure on the affair, it didn’t change the fact that Gil-galad did not _need_ him—so why the ring? Why the _boon_? He had been a _little_ cruel, even—not even someone Ellín deserved the full brunt of Erestor’s ire. Surely Gil-galad wasn’t the type of person to reward such viciousness. Was it that he viewed all problems as significant, and thus this small victory was as important as a great one? But such thinking would be folly—not to mention _expensive,_ if he gave rings and boons that easily— and certainly at odds with Erestor’s understanding of the King’s wisdom.

Perhaps it was for Elendil’s sake. The King greatly desired an alliance with Men, but then again he did not need the bloc’s support to offer aid, or even begin the proceedings towards an official relationship—only to formalize trade agreements. Important, yes, to start such agreements early, but not overly essential. Erestor let loose a long breath through his nose. Another dead-end thought in the maze of his question.

Erestor wandered into his sitting room and sat on the couch, unspooling his thoughts and observations until he could see them all tangled on the rug before him. The fire in the grate hissed, reaching high into the chimney. He thought back over the last few weeks, picking his way along the threads of his past.

He had spent most of his brief time here in something of a mad frenzy, not only in preparing for the trip but also in carving—and sometimes hacking—out a place for himself at Court. Despite both Elrond and Gil-galad’s cautions he had gone out into public the morning after that fateful night, the opal ring flashing on his finger. It was worth whatever trouble he incurred just to see the dawning looks of awe (and, in some cases, horror) on their faces. Elrond had found him while he chatted with Lindir— _very_ smart mouth on that one—and lectured him on appropriate levels of subtlety, but then again Erestor had never said he wasn’t vain.

The bloc, for the most part, had gone into hiding. No matter—once Gil-galad finalized his relations with Elendil there would be no purpose left for them. Erestor thought it was rather nice to have such a neat end to this mess, but in the wake of their dawning obsolescence the bloc made a particular effort to bring him down with them. Erestor spent more time than he would have liked plucking their snagging claws out of his robes.

He had bigger things on his mind than sniveling fools. Namely, one thing— the _King._

Erestor spent whatever time he could watching him, examining his every move. Gil-galad seemed to be an elf of many moods, or, Erestor suspected, many masks. He was calm and serious in court but casual and fond with Elrond, brotherly with his soldiers and lordly with his courtiers. He spoke equally as respectfully to children as he did to elders, though a half-second of his distain could cut loose an elf from society as easily as a dagger through a spring leaf. The only thing he _didn’t_ seem to be was uncontrolled. Gil-galad knew what he was doing and how it was perceived—a skill Erestor had never before seen mastered.

And yet, no answers, no final key to unlock the secret of the ring, of Gil-galad.

And yet, as the days passed and he experienced more of Gil-galad’s presence, Erestor found himself gravitating more and more towards the King. Erestor felt as if he had accidentally fallen (or had been _pushed,_ damn Elrond) into a deep pool and now he was sinking down into an apparently endless well.

_That_ was the other thing behind The Question of the Bloc—and, in truth, the real source of his consternation. He didn’t understand why Gil-galad had given him the ring, but, more importantly, he didn’t understand _Gil-galad_ , couldn’t comprehend him in the way he could Elrond or Maglor. It _infuriated_ him. He wanted to understand this elf, to discover _more._ Yet his investigations proved to no avail, save this niggling thought: the King might have promised Erestor a boon, but he had the feeling that it was less Gil-galad binding himself to Erestor than Gil-galad binding _Erestor_ to _himself_. To be thus bound—even if it was in a highly beneficial way— was not something Erestor took lightly, nor did he understand _why,_ by the _gods!_ He hadn’t felt so inept since Fëanor had taken him on a tour of his workshop.

_Why._

Why would a King, who already had things well in hand, desire ( _need?_ ) Erestor’s help? The bloc had been persistent, but ultimately not much more than a vexatious bump in the road. At least, that was what it must have been to someone as powerful and cunning as Gil-galad, but—

Erestor stopped up short. His fingers stilled on the ring. And there before him stood the answer, glimmering like his reflection in a stilling pool.

The bloc was annoying to Gil-galad, but not to _Elrond._

It was Elrond, it had to be. _You have restored to me the ability to do right by your Lord._ Somehow, in his shock, Erestor had not comprehended those words. Gil-galad would probably have been content to let the bloc run its course, to let it crumble from the inside before picking through the remains for whatever worthwhile things were left. But there was an added angle—their capriciousness and carelessness was aimed at _Men,_ at Elrond’s people. Such talk in an elven court could be harmful, but Erestor had no doubt that Gil-galad had a plan to squash such speech in time. However, that would require _Elrond_ bearing the brunt of the burden while Gil-galad’s plans slowly flowered.

Erestor rubbed his jaw, feeling the ring catch on his skin. What kind of king was he, that he would offer such a gift not for great feats of valor or magnificent accomplishments in Court, but for a small act of… of compassion? Because he had alleviated Elrond’s burden when— Erestor blinked. The answer stepped toward him and slotted into place, snug and sure.

Because Erestor had given Elrond relief when the King himself could not.

Erestor hadn’t truly realized it before. He hadn’t understood the scale of the bloc’s effect—that it wasn’t about their political influence but their racial bigotry— and therefore had misjudged the intent behind the gift. It wasn’t the bloc _at all_ , they were hardly important in the scheme of things. It was Elrond’s hurt at hearing his brother’s people scorned and derided. So when Erestor had thrown them down, publically scolding them not only for their pernicious schemes but also for their _prejudice_ , Gil-galad had rewarded him with the highest gift he could offer.

Erestor had made the mistake of assuming Gil-galad was rewarding him for his service to himself. No. The King was rewarding him for his service to _Elrond,_ whom he _loved,_ whom he himself could not protect in this small instance. Erestor huffed a laugh to himself. No, not small, not in the scope of their love for each other, not when Gil-galad had to ask Elrond to bear wounds for his sake.

Erestor stood, a strange dissolving feeling clinging up along his ribs. Well. If Erestor read the signs clearly—and he didn’t doubt himself here— Gil-galad was someone who loved Elrond as much as Erestor himself did. He felt a sigh of relief escape him. So _this_ was the one who had watched over his beloved Elrond while he was gone with Maglor. Praise the gods.

And yet, the answer of the ring might have been found but it only enlarged the question of the King—who _was_ this elf? He loved Elrond, that much was true, but _what else?_ Love for Elrond was not a strong enough hook to hang an entire personality upon. Gil-galad didn’t _fit_ in Erestor’s understanding. He was compassionate but surreptitious about expressing it, kind and yet cutting—Erestor kept naming attributes that seemed to work only to immediately realize that the opposite was often just as true. Gentle yet unyielding, or cool but warm, or— Erestor shook his head, discarding the line of thought. He could say Elrond was kind and gracious, Maglor was lordly and sad, other elves he had known were this and that—but _Gil-galad._ He defied description. Undertaking such exercises to categorize him were proving less than fruitless.

Erestor huffed, turning down another thought as if it might hold the key. Gil-galad was, first and foremost, a King, and Erestor understood Kings. But again, here his thoughts turned away from understandability into unknown territory. He wasn’t _just_ a king, not in the way Erestor had known kings— and there was this strange halo circling his whole kingship anyway. Erestor respected Gil-galad as a King, yes, just as he respected Maglor as a Lord, but never before had Erestor experienced such… _thankfulness._ Wasn’t that strange? In his time he had seen every Ñoldor King rise and fall like clipped birds, each according to their wisdom and folly. Never before had he seen one such as Gil-galad, who seemed to soar up and up, wheeling like an albatross, never needing to touch the ground once airborne.

Erestor laughed at himself a little at the thought. A few tumultuous weeks seemed hardly enough time to come to such a conclusion, but he didn’t see himself changing his mind anytime soon. Perhaps it had something to do with Morgoth’s absence—ruling must certainly be _easier_ without him— but more than once Erestor found himself wondering what things would have been like had Gil-galad and, say, Fingolfin switched places. That line of thinking was mostly folly—who could change the past?— but Erestor certainly thought he would have _preferred_ Gil-galad’s service to any of the others. Lindon was peaceful and strong, girdled by the will of the King. Erestor found himself thankful to him, beholden to the King in gratefulness for the prosperity and calm he, and all the other subjects of Lindon, enjoyed.

What an astonishing thought. Astonishing emotion. Astonishing _person._

And he _couldn’t let it go._ That was the thing, wasn’t it? _He couldn’t stop thinking about Gil-galad._

Erestor wandered over to the window and pushed it open, breathing in the full scent of leaves. His rooms overlooked a garden, and beyond that a back corner of the main grounds, less open and cultivated than the clean stretches in the front of the palace. Here thick oak trees, ancient and as big around as two ox-carts side-by-side, rested their heavy branches along the ground and trailed their long, gnarled fingers through the loam and underbrush. The trickle of streams could be heard but not seen, their beds choked with dead leaves. Flowers, thick and full, hung from hanging vines amidst the moss. When it rained Erestor found he could wander through the underbrush nearly untouched, enjoying the sweet music of water through the leaves. Only the briefest patches of sunlight and moonlight could make their way through the overhang, but when they could they speared gold and silver through the leaves, igniting dust motes with a strange fire. The moon was almost gone now, waning away to a mere sickle above the leaves, and Erestor longed for its complete disappearance, when the stars would once more rule the night uncontested.

On a whim he climbed out the window and set out through the underbrush, eyes adjusting to the deepening gloom. Overhead, stars winked in and out of sight, ducking behind leaves. Erestor’s robe hung behind him on the ground, rolling over leaves and drawing forth the heady scent of decay from the undergrowth.

He needed to know, to understand, to… _taste_ what it was that made Gil-galad so fascinating to him.

Erestor strayed from his usual wandering path, pushing deeper through the trees to the furthest edges of the grounds. Gil-galad trailed his thoughts, flashes of silver eyes catching at the edges of his mind. Erestor felt hunted somehow, but instead of fear his heart buzzed with a careful sort of anticipation.

He curled around the trunk of an oak to find a clearing surrounding a hidden pool, full of sweet, thick grass and the low sleep-song of small crawling things.

And there, like an answer sprawled in the grass, lay Gil-galad.


	4. Answers

Erestor paused, unsure—Gil-galad’s eyes were closed, his hands folded on his breast, and his crown was missing from his brow. Not in a state for company. Before Erestor could turn away, however, Gil-galad called to him.

“Good evening, Erestor.” He said, voice barely rising above the sound of the night creatures.

“Good evening, your Majesty.” Erestor returned, his heart fluttering as he leaned back towards the shadow of the trees. “I will leave you in peace.”

“Nay, stay, if you will. I could use some company.” He opened his eyes and craned his neck to glance back to Erestor. “We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow, and I would enjoy sharing a little peace with you before we leave.”

“As you wish.” Erestor padded over to him and lowered himself to sit on a cushion of crushed stalks. He had a feeling of entering an unknown forest, one where Gil-galad was a King and not-a-King, someplace Erestor could reach past the veil of propriety and speak with him without constraint. All his earlier thoughts circled around them, lapping up the sight of Gil-galad lying in the grass like clear water.

Gil-galad smiled and rested his head back on the grass. His chest rose and fell in a gentle sigh.

“How did you know it was me?” Erestor folded his feet under him.

“I know your tread.” Gil-galad replied, his voice lilting through the night air. His hair, Erestor noticed, was loose from its customary high-tail. It spilled over the ground beneath him and tangled in the thistles.

Was this Gil-galad’s true face? An elf who laid around in the grass and spoke softly to passers-by? He looked strangely fey in this light, like something grown from the grass itself. Perhaps Elu Thingol had found Melian like this, a beautiful creature spun out of glistening spider’s webs and dew-dropped thistles.

“Do you make it a practice to know every step in your court?” Erestor looked away to the pool, watching the stillness of the water.

Gil-galad chuckled. “Not everyone, no. Your tread I know, and Elrond’s, but not many others.” He stretched, lifting his arms out behind his head. “Elrond walks like a man. You walk like a cat.”

Erestor snorted. “And what would you have done had you not known the step of who approached you? I could have been an errant courtier, or worse, an assassin.”

Gil-galad gave him a side-long look, eyes twinkling. “I’m not so sure an errant courtier is worse than an assassin, but if you worry so, then worry no longer.” He reached to his side and lifted a long spear up from where it was hidden in the grass. “Aeglos is with me. You will also be glad to know that my captain already berated me on my lonesome walks, and I am under his orders to arm myself.”

Erestor watched a sliver of the moon flash in the spear’s mirrored surface. “A spear?” he asked. “I have heard tales of aeglos, yes, but for some reason I always assumed it was a sword. Why do you prefer a spear?”

Gil-galad tested the spear edge with his thumb. “Longer reach,” he replied simply. Then he set the spear aside and the gleam of the blade was hidden once more.

The night air cooled around them. A stray breeze rippled the surface of the water and lifted Erestor’s hair from his shoulders. He and Gil-galad fell into silence, comfortable and warm as down.

“And what does a king desire from lonesome walks?” Erestor asked at last, unable to help himself. Something inside his chest said _closer, closer. Soon now we will arrive._

Gil-galad folded his hands behind his head. “What every elf desires from solitude, I would think. Quiet, tranquility, the comfort of one’s self. What do you desire from them?”

Erestor looked down at him, at the long line of his body. “From lonesome walks?”

Gil-galad nodded.

Erestor shrugged. “Space for my thoughts. I was feeling crowded.” A cricket crawled up the hem of his robe and perched on a wrinkle. Erestor held out his hand and let the cricket crawl up onto it, feeling open and exposed.

“Will you tell me of them? Your thoughts?” Gil-galad asked. Overhead the stars grew bright, their reflection washing over the surface of the pool.

Erestor brushed his fingers over his jaw, thoughtful. The ring, warmed from his skin, caught at the edge of his mouth. “I saw you. After the war.” On his other hand the cricket paused at his wrist, delicate little feet poised to leap.

“Did you now?” Gil-galad turned to his side, resting his head on his hand. He moved as sinuous as water, his hair hissing as it threaded through the grass. “When was this?”

“Just before Maglor left, or, rather, just as he was leaving.” Erestor lowered his hand and released the cricket back into the brush. It leapt away into the darkness, but a few moments later Erestor could hear its song lifting from the underbrush. “He was walking southward down the beach, away from camp. I turned to follow him, but I heard the clear call of a horn—yours, I realized. And I saw you as you rode into the camp.” He looked up at the stars and leaned back to rest on his elbows. Reeds and stalks of grass pricked at his back and hands. “You were very young then, I suppose. I wondered then what kind of King you would make.”

Gil-galad snapped off a nearby twig, twisting it in his fingers. “And do you wonder still?”

The ring glinted on his thumb. “I don’t think so,” Erestor replied.

Gil-galad laughed, thistles rustling under his shoulders. “You know, I think you are the only elf I know who has witnessed the reign of every Ñoldorin King. I’ll admit I’m curious about your opinion of me.”

Erestor sighed, letting his breath out slowly through his nose. The words, when they came, flowed clear and swift, a smooth stream after the morass of his earlier thoughts. “I have seen the reign of _every_ King, in Middle Earth and in Aman. They have not impressed me as much as they should have, but then again, what King should bow to the whims of a simple Councilor? Perhaps it is _my_ perceptions that should change, but I find I am too old to change much at all anymore. Faults that were with me in childhood are still with me, even if I have grown in wisdom and experience.” He looked to Gil-galad. Those star-silver eyes watched him, an amused gleam in their depths. “Thus, I think,” Erestor continued, “Has it been with the reign of the Ñoldor. Problems that plagued our Kings in the infancy of our people continued to plague them into maturity. Pride before wisdom, valor before prudence— and over all the love of one outweighing the love for a people. Finwë loved Fëanor, Maedhros loved Fingon, Turgon loved Maeglin—on and on. Yet I have measured our Kings not by their great loves, but by the cumulative effect of their rule. Are their people happy, are they safe? Do they prosper in peace, at least as much as may be possible? And a further question, what were they willing to give for the sake of their people? Many have given lives, but none have given up their singular, selfish loves.” He faced Gil-galad, the two of them stretched side-by-side in the grass. He could feel his elbows digging into the dirt, the arc of his back and shoulders beginning to ache. “ _You,_ however.”

Gil-galad lifted himself up on his elbow and quirked his lip. “Me?”

Erestor furrowed his brow. “I don’t think you have a singular love, not in the way I’ve described. You love Elrond, yes, more than you love yourself. I never met your sister, but from what I know of her you must have loved her, as well as your father. Your loves are as deep as any of your predecessors, and yet. I look to you and I see an enigma, a careful conglomeration of personality traits tailored to your work, to the demands of your Kingdom. You are not an easy elf to understand,” he chuckled, and Gil-galad gave an amused smirk in return. “Though I think that is intentional. The first true thing I learned about you was your endless love for Elrond. Why else give me a boon, save for your love for him and your thankfulness for my service in his name?” A wry smile rose to his lips. “Your people are safe. They are happy. They can have their petty squabbles over trade agreements, playing at conflict without the true threat of harm. And that absence of harm is no mean feat—some of your predecessors thought that dying at the nearest opportunity was what it meant to be a King. You are too wise to think so. Such foolhardiness yielded unlikely results before—it is not for naught we sing songs in their honor— but the practice of it led to destruction. I do not think you would have rode out alone to rescue Elrond had he been the one chained to Thangorodrim,”—Gil-galad winced, a cloud passing over his eyes— “But neither do your people worry that you will die as Fingolfin did, giving himself over to rage and despair. They will not lose you, will not be thrown into the chaos that is Kinglessness— not unless it is the only way. Now I think the second true thing I have discovered about you is your love for your people and your commitment to sacrifice everything—your pride, your honor, your desires, even your every gesture, every word, every breath— for their sake.”

Gil-galad’s huffed a laugh. Erestor narrowed his eyes. There was something there, something behind the laugh. “Oh, I don’t think things will go as poorly as you say, should I die. Elrond, I deem, could carry on very easily in my absence.” Gil-galad flopped back onto the grass.

Erestor lifted onto one elbow and leaned over him, staring him right in the face. “Then that will be because you have left a solid foundation in your wake.”

Gil-galad waved his hand. “You flatter me.”

Erestor blinked. “I do no such thing. If you think I would flatter you even a little bit you have seriously misjudged my character and I, I think, have misjudged yours.”

Gil-galad smiled. “Peace, Erestor. I think no such thing.”

Erestor’s hand fisted around the ring. “Then hear this. I may have known you only a short time, but know I speak the truth when I say that of all the Kings I have seen and known, you are the greatest, Gil-galad.” His words were the bare truth and they should not have pressed a weight against him, but Erestor found his throat closing tight.

Gil-galad fell silent then, and the mask of his amusement fell to reveal a deep and terrible emotion that Erestor did not yet have a name for.

“Ereinion, Erestor.” He said, his voice as soft as two blades of grass brushing together.

“Ereinion?” Erestor asked, tilting his head. Confusion prickled through him.

Gil-galad nodded. “You should call me Ereinion.” Then he lifted his hand and tangled it in the thick hair at the base of Erestor’s neck, holding close.

Erestor’s breath caught in his throat. Gil-galad ( _Ereinion_ ) looked up at him, asking with those star-sharp eyes and Erestor knew his answer already—perhaps had known for some time now—and he leaned down and kissed him.

Ereinion surged up like a wave beneath him, pulling him down and opening his wine-sweet mouth, devouring— his hand brutally tight in his hair, the other wrapping around his waist to clasp him close— and Erestor arched up against him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, teeth sharp on Ereinion’s lips as he took his fill. The kiss ran wild, flush as a snowmelt river, Ereinion’s hands an undertow over his body as they caressed up his spine. Erestor could taste Ereinion’s low purr of pleasure, could feel it under his palms. When he finally pulled back to breathe, panting hard, his heart beat so fast he could hardly keep himself from falling and sprawling out over Ereinion’s chest. Oh, _by all the gods—_

Ereinion grinned, his gaze burning low. He leaned up to nip at the corner of Erestor’s mouth. “What a mouth you have, to breathe fire one moment and offer such sweetness the next.”

Erestor slumped forward, laughing weakly. “Whatever talents my King requires I will endeavor to produce,” he replied, turning away to nuzzle in the crook of his neck. Oh, to brush his lips over his _skin—_ “I only hope I am pleasing in my performance.”

Ereinion laughed, the sound rumbling up from his chest. Erestor thought he might die at the feel of it under his hands, his breath caught in his throat.

“Oh, I am _very_ pleased indeed, Councilor.” Ereinion’s hands drifted up Erestor’s side, banking coals in his wake. He pressed close to kiss him again, his tongue slick and hot, the taste of him like rain, like an entire thunderstorm on his tongue. Erestor felt his eyes flutter closed and he moaned, his hands clutching weakly at Ereinion’s robes, the thistles in his hair—

And when it seemed he would dissolve away Ereinion released him, pulled back to frame his face in those rough hands. Their eyes met.

“Ereinion,” Erestor murmured, rolling the sound on his tongue. _Scion of Kings._ “Who gave you such a name?”

“My sister.” Ereinion brushed back the falling tendrils of hair from Erestor’s face, tucking them behind his ear. “She gave me Gil-galad too.”

“It always seemed a little excessive to me for someone to have more than one name,” Erestor replied, dry.

Ereinion chuckled and nipped at his jaw, teeth sharp. “Oh, I have a few more. But I suppose you have said too many good things about me already, and you must balance them out.” Then with a quick twist he lifted himself up and rolled Erestor back to the sweet grass, looming over him like a hawk. His hair fell around them like a curtain and Erestor lifted trembling hands to cup his face, to feel the pulse fluttering there—and oh, to touch that soft skin under his jaw, to watch that hair catch on his ring—

“But please, Councilor, do continue in listing my faults.” Ereinion ducked down to ghost his lips up Erestor’s neck. “I like to hear you talk.”

“Y-you,” Erestor jerked, feeling Ereinion’s teeth in the soft skin under his ear. His whole body lit up, a night sky split with lightning. “You’re too i-indulgent with Elrond—”

Ereinion hummed in agreement. “And?” His hand found the first clasp of Erestor’s robe and with a twist, it was free.

Erestor gasped, Ereinion’s weight pinning him in place as he pulled aside the collar to nuzzle lower. Erestor buried his hands in Ereinion’s hair, yanking. “You’re a fucking _tease,_ ” he snarled. “If you’re going to _take me_ then _get on with it._ ”

Ereinion gave him a kiss, quick and soft. “Hush, I will not make you wait forever.” Behind him the stars spread out like a banner, mirroring the light in his eyes. “But I deem both you and I will be more thankful for a bed when we wake in the morning. Come, Erestor.” He rose to his feet and held out a hand.

Erestor took it, only to be pulled close and wrapped up in Ereinion’s arms. His hand threaded through Erestor’s hair while the other dipped down to the small of his back, a growing warmth. Erestor sighed and nuzzled up in the crook of his neck, not minding, for now, this small delay. What course of action could compare to this, to the wonder of being engulfed by a living beam of starlight? He hadn’t felt like this in ages, not since he sat under the Trees and let their dew drip down his naked skin, feeling himself grow soft as a new leaf unfurling. Ereinion’s chest under his palms echoed a similar light, a similar insistence that Erestor give himself over body and heart to beauty and wonder. He felt as far from his tired, cynical self as he felt he could be without transforming into someone completely different, completely alien.

Ereinion’s low voice came to him. “What a beautiful thing you are,” he murmured. “Such loveliness, like the wind through a glade.”

Erestor laughed a little, and kissed the underside of Ereinion’s jaw. “I see how it is now. Your idea of lovemaking involves the excessive exchange of compliments instead of any actual physical contact.”

Ereinion bit at his shoulder, sending a sharp sting down his spine. “Why not both? A King should indulge every now and again.”

Erestor leaned against him, his legs weak. “A King should do no such thing,” he scolded, and oh, _now_ his voice was beginning to slur—

“As you wish, then.” Ereinion pulled away. “I shall speak no more.”

Erestor relented. “Don’t do that,” he whispered to the curve of his neck. He wanted to feel Ereinion’s words rumbling through his chest, wanted to feel the heat of them through his fingertips.

Ereinion chuckled, his lips brushing the tip of Erestor’s ear. “Don’t fear. There are many things I will yet say to you before the night is over.” Then he reached down and threaded his fingers with Erestor’s. “Come with me.” With his other hand he leaned over to pick up aeglos, and then he tugged Erestor away into the underbrush.

They wandered for a little while, and though Ereinion fell silent Erestor could feel his thoughts like a chorus of birds around them. They wound around the ancient trees and over tiny rivulets, and Erestor’s face flushed full with heat. _He is thinking of me._ Such a thought was hard to bear. _Perhaps this encounter_ _will fade in the sunlight, but now he is thinking of me._

Ereinion knew his way through the deep gloom and Erestor clung close to him, stepping in his footsteps. Ereinion kept tight hold of his hand. Occasionally he would glance back and bring it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Erestor rewarded him with slow, promising smiles and little pushes in the small of his back to move him forward.

This felt so good, so _right._ A perfect answer.

They came at last to a high wall, built of a different stone than the outer wall. Erestor could see the palace curving away behind it, banners flapping in the night breeze. A few windows still held candlelight, but the moon was well into his journey and the palace inched its way into darkness.

Ereinion put his palm to the stone, spoke a word, and a door opened. He pushed it open and led them into a wide walled garden, filled to the brim with flowers and little trickling waterfalls. Pools filled with glinting fish housed a few ghost-still cranes, the heady scent of jasmine and the copper tang of water rising up and swirling with incense smoke. The walls, when they were visible through the climbing vines, glinted with mother-of-pearl inlay. The palace itself, stretching along one side, opened into a wide porch thick with rugs and tapestries threaded with gold and mithril. A bed, half-mussed, lay nestled to one side of the porch, vines and strings of pearls tangling in the bedposts.

Erestor slipped loose of Ereinion’s hand and looked around him in awe. Apparently, he had been wrong about Ereinion’s aversion Ñoldorin excess. He felt a low, dragon-eyed glimmer of smugness—for a moment he had forgotten Kings were generally wealthy, and had such things to pamper their paramours as silken sheets and perfumed pillows to go with their passion. “If I had known you could be seduced I would have done so sooner,” he said, desperately trying to keep the magpie in his chest caged. Even the dragonflies, sleeping on bowed reeds, looked bejeweled.

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.” Ereinion set aeglos aside and closed the door, leaning back on the now seamless wall to watch Erestor. His fingers tapped the stone behind him, eager.

Erestor grinned. “Well here I am, your Majesty. Seduced and caught as thoroughly as a trussed hare, ready for your pleasure.”

Ereinion _growled,_ smiling slow and wolf-sharp. “Indeed.”

His mouth, by the gods, _that mouth._ Ereinion stepped in close, took Erestor’s face in his hands, and kissed him once, softly, almost like an apology for the _filthy_ way he murmured, “Come to bed, Councilor mine.”

The distance between _here_ and _bed_ turned out to be no distance at all. Erestor has little time to admire the silken sheets or the feather mattress before Ereinion had him gasping and moaning as easy as any elf a fraction of his age at Midsummer’s, robe slipping halfway down his shoulders and his hair tangling in seven different knots. Ereinion loomed over him, the feral grin on his face visible for only a brief moment before he leaned down to sink his teeth in Erestor’s neck, his long body pressing down between Erestor’s spread legs.

Erestor swore, throwing his head back with a _thunk_ against the headboard. Ereinion hadn’t even _looked_ at his cock yet and already Erestor could feel himself hard and aching, tight against the seam of his robes. He rolled his hips up, desperate for friction, but Ereinion just chuckled and pinned him with the weight of his body, unyielding.

“Ereinion, you _bastard,”_ Erestor snarled and yanked at that long blonde hair, writhing as Ereinion nuzzled past his robe to lap at his nipple. “ _Fuck me_ already—”

Ereinion snorted, lifting up only so he could undo a few more of the ties on Erestor’s robe. “Patience. Besides, I wasn’t necessarily planning on it, seeing as we have a rather long journey by horse tomorrow. There will be other opportunities,” this said with a lascivious tilt to his mouth, “when we don’t have to think about tomorrow’s concerns. Unless,” he paused. A small crease formed between his brows. “Unless you only wanted to spend this night with me, and no others.”

Erestor rolled his eyes. “Only a fool would think one night with you would be enough, and I didn’t think you would suffer fools to come to your bed in the first place.”

Ereinion’s answering smile cut somewhere deep beneath Erestor’s ribs. “Too true, my wise Councilor,” he replied, and dipped his hand underneath Erestor’s robe to skim along his hips.

Erestor lost all capacity for coherent speech after that, Ereinion’s mouth and hands breaking his complete sentences down to _please, Ereinion, please please don’t stop don’t—_ and then, when Ereinion finally undid the last clasp on his robe and took his cock into his mouth he lost even that, words dissolving away into moans and stuttered breaths and desperate, jerking trembles. Ereinion’s _mouth_ on his _cock,_ that moon-limned hair drifting around his face, those silver bright eyes catching Erestor’s as he licked a hot stripe up his flushed skin, by the _gods—_ Erestor barely had enough left of himself to scrape together a slurred _Ereinion, I, I’m—_ before shaking apart with a hoarse cry.

Erestor slumped back, panting. “Oh, by all that is good and holy,” he garbled.

At his hips Ereinion chuckled. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he replied, wry. Erestor looked up to see him wiping a smear of come off his cheek and— oh _no_ Erestor had _come_ on his _face—_

Erestor gaped at him. Come splattered over Ereinion’s cheek, dripping down to those flushed lips, catching in his hair. Erestor felt his cock give a twitch. Ereinion licked his lower lip, tasting, and well, there went all of Erestor’s ability to do his job properly, his cognitive self fleeing over the horizon. This vision before him was never going to leave his sight, not for one minute.

Ereinion, unperturbed, picked up Erestor’s hem and wiped his face.

Erestor smacked him away. “This is _expensive._ ”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Ereinion replied, “Or, alternately, you could simply wash it, like a properly civilized person—” he broke off laughing as Erestor yanked his robes back, grumbling.

Erestor examined the robe, feigning irritation. Ereinion simply settled down to rest his head on Erestor’s belly, folding his hands under his chin. He looked more delighted than he had any right to be, his smile open and wide.

“Oh, this is hopeless,” Erestor relented, and wiggled out of the rest of his robe to ball it up and throw it over the edge of the bed. “Better?” he asked.

Ereinion ran a finger along the ridge of Erestor’s hipbone. “Much.”

Erestor leaned forward and pushed Ereinion off his belly. “You, however,” he plucked at Ereinion’s robes, enjoying the banking fire behind those eyes. “Could stand for a little _improvement.”_

Ereinion obliged, lifting up to tug his soft, casual robes over his head. Erestor allowed himself the indulgence of watching, eagerly devouring every inch of those strong, thick thighs, that taunt belly, those— oh, that was absolutely _unfair._ A smattering of freckles washed over Ereinion’s chest and shoulders, a thousand tiny constellations. Erestor bit his lip, holding back a moan.

Ereinion finally pulled his robe over his head, now dressed only in a pair of— _very hardworking_ —underclothes. All those rings still glittered on his fingers and the silver carcanet lay thick around his neck but all that served to make him look _more_ naked, more _delicious_ , somehow. He knelt on the bed and looked down at Erestor with the air of one who was quite aware of the effect he was having, hands on his hips. “Better?”

Erestor rolled up to his hands and knees, suddenly _ravenous._ “Not quite.” He reached out with one hand and tugged at Ereinion’s waistband, glancing up to watch Ereinion’s face flush as he pulled them down. “Lie down Ereinion,” he murmured, voice dipping low in command.

Ereinion reached down, his eyes full to burning, and gave Erestor’s hair one sharp tug. “As you wish,” he replied, voice barely more than a growl.

Then he laid the long golden length of himself out on the bed, lounging against the headboard with such grace that Erestor wondered what it was a battered old storm-crow like himself was doing with a King like _that_ , never mind with a King like that who just _sucked cock,_ oh— who was this King who _knelt_ , who lapped at the soft skin of a cock with as much ease as he ordered a Kingdom?

Erestor crawled forward, drawn, forever drawn to that endless mystery—“May I approach the King?” he asked as he knelt between Ereinion’s spread legs, dipping his head.

Ereinion reached out and cupped his cheek. “You may.”

Erestor ran his hands up Ereinion’s thighs, feeling the light hairs rise under his fingertips. Erestor could sense all that endless life thrumming there, running under his palms like an ocean tide. Ereinion’s cock, flushed purple and curving up the ridge of his hips, pulsed. Erestor dipped his head, reverent, watching Ereinion’s belly rise and fall ever so softly, the lingering moon-shadows shifting over muscle, catching on the swell of his breast. Living starlight.

Ereinion carded his hand through Erestor’s hair, tangles catching. “Erestor.” It wasn’t a plea, nor a command—just his name, spoken in the still of the night.

“My King,” Erestor looked up. Their gazes met and held. “Ereinion.”

Ereinion’s thumb drifted down to Erestor’s mouth, brushing along his bottom lip. “What a mouth you have, Councilor,” he mused, and a low laugh rumbled up from his chest.

Erestor kissed the pad of his finger, feather light. Then he leaned down, settled himself between Ereinion’s thighs, and set to work.

Ereinion’s cock was velvet-soft on his tongue, hot and thick and _insistent,_ oh, and the feel of it all—the crown of Ereinion’s cock weighing heavy and bitter on his tongue, his eyes fluttering closed with the taste of it, _oh—_ Erestor licked and sucked and took the long length of it into his mouth, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. Ereinion’s thighs jumped under his grip, trembling beneath his hands. Erestor pulled back to catch his breath, pumping with his slick hand while he lapped at the salty tang of precome, sharp and bitter as liquid iron.

Ereinion rolled his hips up slowly, testing, nudging his cock up to Erestor’s lips. Erestor let him push further back past his teeth, into his throat, stretching his mouth wide and sinking down until he could feel hair brushing up against his nose.

And _then—_ Ereinion moaned above him, and Erestor could feel that low sound strike through him like a thunderbolt. He reached his hands around Ereinion’s hips, encouraging, and Ereinion thrust up into his mouth with a sharp snap. After that it was more about just holding still, letting Ereinion fuck his mouth while he desperately tried to keep from choking on the pleasure of it.

Then Erestor made the mistake of looking up, of seeing Ereinion flushed and unraveled, a high blush traveling up his neck to disappear under his necklace, his parted lips bitten pink—and then Erestor met those half-lidded eyes and Ereinion threw back his head and groaned, “ _Erestor_ , I—”

Come burst in his mouth and it was all _too much—_ Erestor moaned, took the length of Ereinion’s cock into his throat, and _swallowed_.

Ereinion slumped back on the bed, completely still save for the swelling of his breast, breathing hard. The only movements he seemed capable of were the tiny caresses his fingers traced over Erestor’s cheek, up the tip of his ear and into his hair. Erestor lolled against his thigh, mouth sticky with come. If he listened closely he could hear Ereinion’s heartbeat racing through his skin.

Ereinion looked down at him and grinned, impish. “You never disappoint, do you Councilor?”

Erestor glowered and nipped his thigh. “I don’t know whether to be offended or complimented, so I’ll assume the former.”

“Oh hush.” Ereinion shifted over the bed and reached to a pitcher and glass standing on a bedside table. He poured a glass and, after taking a sip for himself, held it out to Erestor. “Here, drink this.”

Erestor took it, grateful to rinse the stale taste out of his mouth. He held the glass in both hands, watching as Ereinion settled back down, opening a space at his side. “Come here,” he said, soft and pliant.

Erestor obliged, crawling up to splay half over the covers and half over Ereinion’s chest, tucking his head beneath his chin. Ereinion plucked the glass out of his hand and set it aside. Then he slung an arm around Erestor’s shoulder, his free hand tracing little whorls in the skin of Erestor’s back.

“Tell me, your Majesty,” Erestor nosed at the underside of his jaw, the silver carcanet hot from his body. “Which of your other courtiers have you taken to bed?”

Ereinion snorted. “Why do you want to know?”

“I feel it prudent to know my competition.” Erestor smiled. He could feel Ereinion’s eye-roll through the entirety of his body.

“If you must know,” he replied, “None.”

“Really?” Erestor leaned up on his elbow. “Why not?” Unspoken incredulity furrowed his brow.

Ereinion shrugged. “I have no intention to marry, and once that possibility is removed from the equation there are very few who are actually viable lovers.”

“How do you mean?” Erestor looked over Ereinion’s sated-golden body and felt that magpie-feeling rising in his chest. He tamped down thoughts of _mine, mine._

Ereinion, unperturbed, continued. “I am _the King._ While I was only a distant prince, and a foolish one at that, I could bed whom I wanted with little regard to politics or schemes. Now, I have little time or inclination to vet every attractive courtier for the probability they will use sex to manipulate me, or if others could use them to manipulate me, or if I like their politics enough to _let_ them manipulate me, and so on and so forth. I have even less time to woo someone outside of Court, and in truth don’t I think I’m worth the trouble Court brings if I’m not offering marriage.” He turned to Erestor, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “So you see, fewer options than you’d think. You, however, occupy a rather niche position. You’re a member of my Court, but your fullest loyalty lies with Elrond. Elrond trusts you, and I know you won’t push me beyond Elrond’s desires. Furthermore, I think you’re the closest thing to an immoveable object that I know of—no one can manipulate you against me unless they go through Elrond, in which case, just go through Elrond.”

Erestor raised his eyebrows at him. “Are you sure you don’t like me because of my charming personality?”

Ereinion kissed his forehead. “Well, there are ways to fix that problem.”

Erestor threw a pillow at him.

Ereinion rolled away, his hands up. “Peace, I jest.” He reached out to Erestor’s side and pulled, apologetic. “I think you’re lovely,” he said, and it _almost_ sounded as if he meant it.

Erestor liked to think he had an effective pout, but it dissolved as soon as Ereinion had him back up against his chest again, tracing those endless spirals in his skin. Erestor sighed and settled back in the crook of his arm. Their skin, tacky with sweat, dried cool in the night air. “So, no options. Why not just bed Elrond, then?”

Ereinion smiled, a soft laugh in his chest. “I thought about it, for a little while. However, by the time I got around to testing the waters he’d already met a certain silver-haired beauty from Lothlorien and was subsequently lost forever.”

Erestor leaned up, eyes narrowed. “Wh—Galadriel’s daughter? Celebrían?”

Ereinion nodded.

Erestor frowned. “How have I not known this?”

“He’s rather shy about it, I think.” Ereinion rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, smiling at the memory. “I only know because after she left court he moped for three weeks until I sent him back to Imladris with extra building supplies and new stationary.”

Erestor pursed his lips, fingers tapping on Ereinion’s breastbone. “Well, I for one have some new plans to make. As for you,” he gave a lilting, ironic sigh. “At least you know he has a thing for blondes. If it doesn’t work out I feel there’s enough of a family resemblance between you and she to make it work. What are you, cousins?”

Ereinion nodded, chuckling. “I suppose. Yes, first cousins, once removed.”

“There you have it. Problem solved.” Erestor slipped his arm around that broad chest, feeling loose and pleasure-heavy. “Not, of course, that I would ever let you get away with it.”

_That_ got a real laugh out of him, full throated and deep. “No, I suppose not.”

Somewhere in the distant trees a mockingbird sang, calling for its mate. Erestor fell into drowsiness, lulled by the little circles Ereinion traced in his skin and the slow way his chest rose and fell under Erestor’s cheek. He had not lain with anyone for some time, perhaps many thousands of years now, but he found himself calm and at peace. There had been other lovers he had known for longer and in whose company he had still felt less at ease than he did now.

Ereinion ran his hands through Erestor’s hair, untangling stray ends. “Did you wish to return to your own rooms?” He murmured.

Erestor pinched him. “Do you want me gone?”

“Hush, you prickly thing.” Ereinion drew him closer, threading their legs together. “No. I simply thought that you might sleep better in a familiar place, and since we have a long journey tomorrow I do not want to unduly tire you.”

Erestor snorted. “I think my stamina can take a little nap with you by my side. Besides, a long life on the road has taught me many skills, not the least of which is how to find sleep anywhere.”

Erestor couldn’t see it but he could _feel_ Ereinion’s smile, could feel his pleasure at Erestor’s words. “Good. I sleep better with others—something of a soldier’s habit, I think.”

Erestor closed his eyes, the drowsiness catching up with him. “Then prove your words and hush. As you said, we have a journey tomorrow.” He nuzzled in close, tucking his face along Ereinion’s shoulder. “Take this useless thing off,” he grumbled, plucking at the carcanet.

“Alright,” Ereinion unclasped the necklace and tossed it away, letting it land with a muffled thump at the foot of the bed. Erestor sighed and pressed his nose to Ereinion’s bare neck, feeling his pulse jump. Ereinion reached over his body for a light quilt and threw it over them. Then, listening to the distant, mournful call of the bird, they fell asleep.


	5. Daylight

Erestor woke to an early sliver of sunlight cutting through the trees and an empty bed. He cracked an eye open and looked out over the garden, content to bask for a few moments more in the morning air.

Everything was fresh and new, and the dew glistening over the grass and leaves made the garden glitter like the inside of a diamond. Birds swooped over the smooth surface of the pools, snatching gnats for breakfast. Frogs—squat little emperors—sat at the edge of the water and surveyed their domain with a slit-eyed, gluttonous hunger.

In the middle of the garden, in a small clearing, stood Ereinion. Dressed in a thin pair of white house pants he slid his bare feet along the wet grass, leaving dark trails in his wake. His neck was bare as well, and all the rings were gone from his fingers save two. He held aeglos outstretched in his hands, his eyes half-closed in meditation as he slowly moved through his paces. A defensive stance became an attack, his arms extending inch by inch until aeglos reached its full length. The rings winked in the sun, sky-sapphire and blood-ruby—strange to wear such fragile stones while practicing, but no doubt safe while on Ereinion’s fingers. He moved achingly slowly, as if he waded through honey. Erestor wondered at the apparent lethargy until he realized Ereinion was examining his muscle memory, picking through his movements for an error in alignment or grounding.

For a long moment Erestor simply watched, following muscles as they rippled over that broad frame, catching pale sunlight and cool shadow in equal measure. Ai, what a delicious pleasure in and of itself, watching him move. Then Erestor stretched, curling his toes in the soft quilt. Oh _yes,_ Erestor might not manipulate Ereinion in the political sphere, but he was _definitely_ going to wheedle sheets like these out of this arrangement. He wrapped himself up in the quilt and rolled out of bed, padding over the cool stone floor to stand at the edge of the garden. “Good morning,” he called.

Ereinion looked up from his concentration. “Good morning,” he returned, pulling out of his stance. “Did you sleep well?” he strode over to where Erestor stood, aeglos glinting like a sunbeam.

“Well enough,” Erestor replied. He slipped in close to Ereinion’s side, reaching out to touch the thin sheen of sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbone. Sparks popped and crackled under his skin—oh, this elf was going to drive him _mad._

Ereinion leaned down to nuzzle at Erestor’s jaw, setting aeglos aside so he could run both hands up his back. “However much I might want to, I’m afraid we can’t linger.”

“Shame.” Erestor pressed a kiss to the skin above Ereinion’s breastbone. “Shall I wait to receive summons before coming to your bed again?”

Ereinion’s hands tightened in the quilt. “No.” He tugged it down and Erestor let it fall in a heap around his feet. “You may come see me whenever you wish, and if I call you may, of course, refuse. Though, if you arrive and I must deny you, you can still sleep next to me, should you so desire.”

Erestor pressed closer, letting his half-hard cock nudge against Ereinion’s thigh. “Would you like that? For me to warm your bed?” he grinned, voice low and promising. “Shall you chain me to your bedpost, naked but for a silver collar, available to have whenever you wish?”

Ereinion’s hands drifted lower to cup his ass. “Don’t tempt me. But yes, I would—like to have you sleep next to me, that is. I slept better for your presence.”

Erestor nipped his collarbone. “I slept worse for yours.”

Ereinion laughed. “I always knew you were a finicky thing,” he said, kneading and rolling Erestor’s hips forward to grind against his skin.

Erestor felt his cock throb, fully hard. “I don’t suppose, _ah—_ ” Ereinion’s hand brushed up to play with his nipple. “We could linger a little?”

Ereinion leaned down to worry a bruise in his neck and Erestor bucked forward, gasping. “I suppose,” he said. “We could linger a _little_.” He nudged Erestor back to the bed, pushing him down. “Take this as an apology—you won’t be able to come to my bed while we are away at Elendil’s court.”

Erestor glared at him. “Truly?” He had been looking forward to getting properly fucked the minute he was able, but now it was looking like he would have to _wait._ For _months._

Ereinion untied his house pants and let them drop. “I’m afraid so,” he said as he crawled over him, nudging his legs open as he settled himself down. “This is a rather delicate operation and I can’t have a scandal while we’re there. But,” he leaned down to kiss Erestor’s frown. “Have no fear. I’ll make it up to you.” And he rolled his hips down, grinding against Erestor’s flushed cock.

Erestor didn’t have much in him to complain after that, trapped as he was between the twin pleasures of Ereinion’s tongue licking up into his mouth and Ereinion’s cock grinding down against his own. Later, however, after he climbed back into his rooms through the open window, he switched few of his formal robes out for tighter, more revealing ones. He wasn’t beyond a few petty vengeances.


	6. Negotiation

Ereinion rode to Elendil’s court with his crown gleaming on his brown and the wind snapping through his long hair. Elrond rode with him, Ereinion’s midnight blue banner drifting down over his shoulder, and Erestor took his place at Elrond’s side. It was a smaller delegation than it might have been—Ereinion did not want to unduly stress Elendil’s burgeoning kingdom—but those who went were obviously hand-selected for their honor and valor. Their company wove up the coast into the interior of Middle Earth in a great glittering train, wagons laden with gifts and arms following behind. There was a certain nervous air about them, a breeze of anticipation. Ereinion didn’t just want Elendil to be his ally, he wanted Elendil to be his _friend_ too—and, like a lover to woo, he brought only the best with him.

It took almost three weeks to travel to Arnor, as it was now called, during which time Erestor had space to think. Well, when he could manage to think around the thrumming in his blood, his bones— _Ereinion._

Whatever else Ereinion might be he was his _lover_ , now, and that took some getting used to. A lover occupied a different space in his mind than Elrond did, or a Lord, or a rival—some liminal space that stretched over _friendship_ and _intimacy_ and _sex_ while also remaining strictly casual, ephemeral. Erestor wasn’t, generally speaking, interested in having a “legitimate relationship,” as those demanded a loyalty deeper than what he felt he had to offer—Elrond, as always, held primacy in his heart, so how could he promise that to another? His previous experiences had been good, wonderful even, but generally short. Most had been moments of pleasure stolen in war, others pleasant diversions in times of peace. Most bedtime companions, however, lost interest with him within a few weeks, wanting more than Erestor was willing to give. Those who didn’t mind the lowered emotional intimacy also tended to leave rather early—they disliked having a warm, willing partner in bed only to find nothing changed outside of it. Erestor, as a rule, didn’t let sex interfere with his duties, and some resented him for it. But brief flings weren’t unlovely, and Erestor remembered most with fondness even if he hadn’t been sorry when they left.

Ereinion was different, somehow. In what way remained yet to be seen, but Erestor was both shocked and frightened to discover that maybe he wanted _more_ from Ereinion than he had ever wanted from anyone else. He tucked that thought in the back of his mind, somewhere safe and untouchable.

After Erestor had left Ereinion’s room he had gone to work as usual, trailing Elrond’s shadow as they prepared to leave. He didn’t know, exactly, what he was expecting—hoping?— from Ereinion outside the bedroom, but he wasn’t nervous. There had been a few painfully awkward encounters in his youth regarding public affection and he cringed to remember them, but surely someone like the King wouldn’t do such things.

As he and Elrond had made their way through the palace to the waiting company Erestor felt a flicker of curiosity, wondering how the King would react to him. Would he be cold and purposefully distant, or would his eyes heat with the memory of Erestor’s mouth on his cock? Erestor didn’t wholly know, so he readied himself to respond appropriately to whatever strangeness might arise between them.

But when they arrived in the courtyard Ereinion treated him no differently than he had before—which was to say, with professionalism and an expectation for excellence, if with a little favoritism. It would have been easy for Ereinion to give him some sort of sign—a burning look, a lingering touch—but he did no such thing. Erestor found that comforting. He wondered if perhaps Ereinion desired the same thing as he did out of a partner—discretion as well as affection—or, more likely, he understood Erestor’s preferences towards privacy better than Erestor thought he did and acted accordingly.

That was an interesting sensation. Being understood.

Erestor, for his part, mirrored the King’s actions and responded with all his courtly grace, keeping his face a mask not even Elrond could see through. Inside his chest, however—choruses of birds took flight, tides roiled against cliffs, stars flared in blue brilliance, and he scolded himself for being far too old to indulge in such fantastical emotions. He had _some_ dignity to maintain.

Even so. Who could not feel a little fantastical, a little wonder-struck at it all? At _him?_ At stumbling across the starlight splendor of _Ereinion the King_ , at falling into his bed, at waking tangled in the smell of him?

Oh gods, he had given Erestor his _name._ Even when after they parted ways Erestor would always have the sound of it in his throat, the feel of it lifting off his tongue.

_Ereinion._

 ~*~

The road proved long and uneventful. None of Ereinion’s present court stirred even the tiniest bit of trouble, placid as a herd of cows on a summer’s day. On the dawn of the last day Erestor took his place by Elrond’s side and _itched_ for ink and paper and _intrigue,_ work for his restless hands.

Ah, but it was worth it to crest that final ridge and see Elendil’s kingdom spread out like a carpet of stars beneath them, the air filled in equal measure with flowers and song. Ereinion paused for a moment at the lip of the ridge and surveyed the splendor. Elrond came to stop beside him, and Erestor caught the look of sparking anticipation passed between them. _Yes,_ they said to each other. _Let’s get to work._

Arnor, far from being the last outpost of a destroyed kingdom, flushed hale and whole, flush with the vigor of a new kingdom’s youth. Elendil’s newly minted capital city, Annúminas, gleamed with white stone along the shores of Lake Evendim. The former Númenorians, now Arnorians, wore sheer, brightly-colored robes to match their equally bright smiles, their thick braided hair often woven with beads and small, hollow cones filled with perfume. White trees hung mithril-bright from every banner, song drifted through the air, and everywhere the city seemed to whisper _Ai! The sun rises!_

Elrond bore a look of unmitigated joy, filled to the brim with the sight of his brother’s people. Once they entered the great white gates Erestor could almost feel him trembling, desperate to leap off his horse and wander in the crowd, to lose himself in the delight of his long-extended family. The generations might have lost Elros’ tawny-gold skin in favor of a dark umber, but his clear brow and gently curved mouth were present everywhere. One young man in particular, running ahead of the procession, caught Erestor’s eyes. His hair, cut short, was woven through with braids that crossed only a few strands away from those of the house of Fëanor, and his eyes glinted with a long-familiar mischievousness. Erestor heard Elrond gasp, then sigh. The Fall of Númenor had wounded him grievously, and Erestor knew that seeing his kin’s continued prosperity after such devastation would give him much peace and healing.

Ereinion himself looked equally delighted, albeit in a more subdued way. Erestor noticed that here, away from the pressures of court and surrounded by his most trusted nobles, he was able to relax into something closer to his true demeanor. His was a look of pride and satisfaction—pride at Elendil’s accomplishments, and satisfaction at knowing his choice to align himself with such a man as a wise one. He rode tall and straight in his saddle, every inch an Elven King of Old come to pay homage to the New King of Men.

When they came at last to greet Elendil half the city must have been following them, a profusion of rainbow flowers clustered around them. The palace itself, a great spiraling thing glinting like diamonds, paled in comparison. When Ereinion and Elrond dismounted to walk the rest of the way up the cascade of steps they found themselves flooded with necklaces of flowers, and Erestor wondered if they would ever truly make it to the top. Cries of _Welcome to the King!_ rose up in the chaos, but greater still were the shouts of _Welcome to our Father’s-Brother! Welcome Lord Elrond!_ Tears ran down Elrond’s face as he reached out his hands and found them filled, filled to overflowing with his people.

Elendil waited for them at the top of the steps, his hands spread wide in greeting. His dark skin gleamed with the light from the noon sun, and his eyes— Erestor felt his heart twist. His eyes flashed with the same warm amber as Elros’ eyes had been.

Finally Elrond and Ereinion managed to break free from the crowd and ascended the steps to greet him.

“Welcome, my Lords,” Elendil, his voice deep as a cavern, reached out to clasp Ereinion’s hands in his own. Erestor, standing at the foot of the steps with the rest of the elves, could hear his voice reverberate like a great horn.

“You honor us greatly, my Lord,” Ereinion replied, smiling wide and open as the sky. The two banners, Ereinion’s starry field and Elendil’s white tree, lifted up in the wind and tangled together in a surge of blue and white. Erestor regarded that as a good omen, or, since he didn’t put much stock in omens, the sight of them together set his heart at rest.

Grooms appeared to tend the horses and wagons, while butlers ushered the company inside with murmurs of “This way, my Lady,” or “After me, my Lord.” Erestor followed the majority of the company as they settled in to their housing arrangements, while Ereinion and Elrond separated away with Elendil to enjoy a private supper before the formalities began.

Erestor found he was to be housed with Elrond, and was given a small room adjacent to Elrond’s larger suite. A tall window, open to the breeze, overlooked a few interior courtyards filled with trees strung with colored paper lanterns. In the distance the lake shimmered, flocks of birds clustering and spreading over the surface. They moved almost as one being, bunching together and spreading out like the arms of some unknown wind creature.

The groom closed the door behind him and Erestor, left alone, leaned his elbows on the smooth stone windowsill, thoughtful. People of all ages, full of the irresistible vibrancy of mortals, filled the city like a tide. Elves didn’t generally have children during times of unrest or war—Elrond and Elros were two of only a very few born near the end of the first age— but mortals couldn’t afford such pickiness. Despite all the hardships Elendil and his people had endured, the city was _full_ of the laughter of children. Children running through the alleys, children flying kites, children exasperating their parents and delighting their grandparents. Erestor smiled, watching a gang of youngsters mob a stray elf, clustering around her like a flock of jabbering chickens. He craned his neck and followed them as they rounded an alleyway, peering after them until he lost sight of their mud-stained robes. Such blessings. Such _delight_.

As he leaned further out the window to search for the beleaguered elf, out of the corner of his eye he spotted a courtyard tucked away near the heart of the palace, half-hidden behind flowering trees. He turned to it, curious.

There, within an encircling stone wall, sat Ereinion and Elrond with Elendil and his Herald around a low table, lounging on cushions and conversing. Their food, half-eaten, lay forgotten in the wake of their conversation. Elendil’s Herald, a tall, imposing woman even at this distance, was having some sort of spirited discussion with Elrond, their hands waving like leaves. Elendil and Ereinion, twin stars, sipped at their tall crystalline glasses, watching their seconds.

What a sight! The pinnacle of two nations sitting around, eating lunch, and chatting. They looked carved from pure light, like maia resting their wings beneath the Trees—true nobility flowing from their shoulders easy as water. Even from the far window Erestor found his eyes pinned to the sight, wondering at how they could make snacking on cheese look so _beautiful._ He sighed from deep in his chest, a slow, diffusing delight spreading through his bones.

Elrond looked so _happy,_ lit up from within like a Simaril. As he turned to Elendil Erestor could read the word _nephew_ on his lips, half-teasing but wholly true. Elendil’s answering eye-roll and barely-suppressed smile told Erestor all he needed to know about what he thought of _that._

The four of them sat comfortable and casual with each other beyond what they could be in Court. Erestor twirled a lock of his hair between his fingers, musing. Elrond was an elf through and through despite (or maybe because of) his Peredhel blood, and as such elves were his people. But Elros was a _man,_ and as the generations flew by and his blood diluted through the whole of Númenor, Elrond came to view all Men as _his family._ This was Erestor’s one regret: that in tending Maglor he could not help assuage Elrond’s grief at his brother’s death or the deaths of the many others he had come to love.

But now they were here, and Elrond was happy with his kin, and the sky stretched sapphire-blue overhead, and—

And Ereinion lay just over there with a soft curl to his mouth, his grey eyes flashing with mirth. Erestor leaned further out of the window, the ring on his thumb making a faint _skrrr_ sound on the stone.

Ereinion. His lover. _His._ Erestor chuckled at himself. What had he gotten so possessive? It was unlike him, but he couldn’t help but feel a little dragon-like over such a treasure. He watched as Ereinion tucked his high-tail behind his shoulder with a flick of his hand, his ignorance of Erestor’s gaze an opportunity to linger on the strong span of his shoulders, the swell of his breast under his robes. His hands drifted over the rim of his windglass, tracing the delicate crystal edge. Erestor shivered, remembering the feel of those fingers over the edges of his hipbones, the back of his knees. Ai, and they still had _weeks_ to go until they made it back home.

He tarried by the window, content to put off unpacking for a little while longer.

 ~*~

Elendil kept this first night relatively quiet as a courtesy to the travel-weary elves, and as such held Elrond captive in a flurry of “casual” events while he left Erestor to wait.

So Erestor spent most of the afternoon and evening wandering through the city itself, catching up with old companions (along with their children and grandchildren). He and Maglor had spent some time among Men, seeking company and safety during times of increasing trouble. While many of them had already passed on by now, many yet lived who remembered them fondly. It wasn’t hard to find them, and Erestor found himself set at ease with his conversation with old men and women, full to ripeness with the span of their lives. By the time Erestor returned to his and Elrond’s quarters he had his arms full of at least three bottles of new wine and a basket full of other gifts, a bright scarf wound around his neck.

Elrond didn’t return until later that evening, humming some new tune under his breath. He seemed to dance through the doorway, light on his toes, uncaring for his mud-stained robes—obviously from sneaking away to walk down the lakefront. He looked like a sparrow in spring, puffed up and half-silly with anything and everything, from the breeze under his wings to the scratch of his nails underfoot.

Erestor sat on the couch in their mutual sitting room, already halfway through his second glass of wine and feeling slightly fuzzy at the edges. “Good evening, my Lord,” he said, a smile curling his lips. “How was your day?” He poured Elrond a glass and passed it to him.

Elrond took the glass and slumped down on the couch, boneless with happiness. “A delight, Councilor,” he sighed, beaming.

“Do tell,” Erestor replied.

Elrond held out his hands. “What is there to say? Elendil introduced us to his household, showed us the city, the usual. He is as eager for a formal alliance as the King, they get along famously, all is right in the world.” He took a lazy sip of his wine. “If our luck holds like this then we might even get Oropher into the fold.”

“And your kinfolk?” Erestor pressed, knowing where Elrond’s tongue itched to go. “How are they?”

“Well!” He motioned to the room around him, to the tick, rich tapestries and the music drifting in from outside. “They prosper and thrive, more than I could have ever hoped after the fall of Númenor. Elendil is good and wise and equal in all things to our own King, and—” he laughed. “And I’m beginning to sound like propaganda. But my heart flows over to see them thus, and I begin to feel that I have spent too long away from them in my sorrow and grief. We elves get stuck too easily in our emotions, I think, and after living with them so long sometimes I forget how much I _love_ Men.”

“You love men?” Erestor replied, teasing. “And here I heard you were pining after a certain young lady; it seems I was misinformed.”

Elrond rolled his eyes but was unable to hide his blush. “I love the _people of men,_ you ass. And,” he took a sip of his wine, averting his eyes. “Where did you hear that?” His voice went carefully flat, revealing nothing.

“Elsewhere,” Erestor waved the question away. “Is it true?”

Elrond tucked his feet up on the couch and hugged his knees to his chest. “It wouldn’t come to anything even if it was,” he replied, a little of his earlier smile deflating into something weak and trembling.

“Oh, come now, Elrond, why do you say such a thing?” Erestor set aside his wine and shifted closer. “I’ve met Celebrían, she seems lovely in every way. Why do you think she won’t have you?”

“It’s not _that,_ it’s just—It’s not that I think, well, that we wouldn’t _work_ together,” Elrond stuttered. “I just, well…” he trailed away, blush deepening.

He placed a hand on Elrond’s knee. “If you don’t wish to speak of it, then we don’t have to. I’m sorry I brought it up—I only thought to share in your joy, not bring you pain.”

Elrond sighed, unspooling. “No, it’s alright. All this,” he motioned at his slumped shoulders. “Isn’t about me, or even her, really. It’s… it’s about this war.”

Erestor stilled. “This war?”

Yes, war. The drifting smoke around every conversation. Sauron, curled up in Mordor, his one eye cracked open. Erestor had not had much access to news in the past years, but then again, he didn’t need news to remember Celebrimbor’s body, split like a stag on a pike. Erestor looked to Elrond, to this elf he loved with a deep, unwavering devotion, and felt an icy coldness creep up his chest. It was not that he didn’t know war was coming, ( _always, always coming_ ) but some part of himself had never acknowledged that war would come for _Elrond,_ not even after Eregion fell.

Elrond nodded. “Sauron.” He leaned back against the couch cushions, his brows drawing together.

Erestor reached out and tucked a strand of tangled hair behind Elrond’s ear. “I don’t see why Sauron should prevent you from being wed. It’s not like we’re going to invite him to the wedding.” He pushed the coldness down, tucked it away to examine later.

Elrond chuckled, some cheeriness returning to his face. “No, I suppose not. And perhaps it _is_ less about him than it is about me.” He turned to Erestor, hands folded over his knees. “You might think me silly, for saying this, so I’m telling you now not to scold me.”

“I will do no such thing,” Erestor picked up his wineglass and took a sip, hiding his smile behind it. “You have my word.”

“I’m sure.” Elrond gave him a side-long look, but continued. “I made something of a promise to myself, after the War ended and my parents flew off to do whatever it is they do up in the sky. I told myself that if I was ever going to marry and have children that I would put away the sword forever and take up Healing.” His eyes were soft. He’d forgiven Eärendil and Elwing— or come to terms with them, or pushed them from his mind, or done whatever he needed to do to make peace with their absence—long ago, but whenever he mentioned them he became a sort of quiet that reminded Erestor—viscerally, horribly—of that long-ago child sleeping fitfully on his lap, whimpering in the dark.

Erestor squeezed his knee and waited for him to continue.

“So you see,” Elrond leaned into the touch. “I can’t marry. No so long as there’s a chance I’ll—that I’ll have to leave her, and… and our _children_ behind. While the King didn’t let me fight in the Great War he needed me in Eregion, and he needs me now. But,” He smiled then, a wondrous shy thing. “We’ve talked about it. He’s going to release me from my duties and set me up nicely in Imladris after the war. I’ll ask her then, maybe, if she hasn’t found anyone else. You know,” he gave a wry smile. “If we don’t all die under Sauron’s heel.”

“ _You,_ at least, will not, not if I have anything to say about it. The King will have to live up to his promise, though he rue the price.” Erestor smiled. Good. He liked this King more by the minute, beyond even his impressive fellatio skills. “You know, I knew her but briefly when Maglor and I went last to Lothlorien. Will you tell me more about her?”

Elrond bit his lip, looking like he couldn’t decide between sharing nothing and sharing _everything_ and was going to choke on the words if he didn’t decide soon. “I will, but first tell me how you _knew,_ you sly old snake.”

“Ereinion told me,” Erestor replied, unthinking. “I hope you don’t mind—”

“ _Wait._ ” Elrond whirled on him, eyes narrowed. “ _Ereinion?_ He told you his kilmessi? He lets you _use_ his _chosen-name_?”

_Oh no._ Erestor hadn’t even noticed the slip. He took a sip of his wine before putting the glass away, his face perfectly still. “I believe I heard it somewhere in Mithlond. Is that truly his chosen-name?” He deflected.

“You liar, no one even _knows_ that name, none save myself—” Elrond face scrunched in thought, then widened in dawning realization. “You— you’re _sleeping_ with him, aren’t you?”

Erestor could feel a traitorous flush creep up his neck. “No.”

“You _are,_ you lying bastard!” He gasped. “By the gods! You’re _fucking the King._ ”

Erestor covered his face in his hands. “Just tell me about Celebrían. Please.”

Elrond tugged his hands away, gleeful. “Oh no no no, not until you tell me all about how you got yourself in Ereinion’s _bed,_ you jackal!”

The blush was in his cheeks now, burning hot. “Did anyone ever tell you, Elrond, that you’re intolerably _rude?_ ”

“Never.” Elrond gripped Erestor’s hands. “Besides, you’re the one asking very personal and invasive questions about my love life and tossing the King’s kilmessi around like it’s nothing.”

Erestor glared at him. “Fine. We started sleeping together the night before we left to come here. Happy?”

“Absolutely not,” Elrond replied, grinning wide. “Ereinion hasn’t slept with anyone since he became king, and I’m not talking about King of the Ñoldor, I’m talking about the King of Lost Nargothrond when he was _forty-five,_ and that was, what, three thousand years ago? Four? How’d you get him to change his mind?”

“ _Intolerably_ rude,” Erestor grumbled, feeling more than a little unmoored. “Will you believe me if I say that it’s a matter of convenience?”

Elrond snorted. “Maybe? From your end, perhaps. _You_ aren’t the type to fall head over heels in a few week’s span. But what are _you_ to _him?_ ”

“A casual lover, nothing more.” Erestor sat back against the couch, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s not that he’s chosen to be celibate all this time and I’m special enough to change his mind, he just has littler opportunity as King than he might otherwise. We understand each other well, I think, and he knows I won’t try to use our encounters for leverage in Court. The opportunity presented itself, and I was willing. Simple as that. Now,” he turned his eye upon Elrond. “Celebrían.”

Elrond raised his brow. “I suppose that makes sense. But,” he pointed a finger at Erestor’s nose. “Don’t think you’re off the hook. Remember, if you don’t give me answers I’ll ask _him_ and I want you to have a good long thought about what that’ll mean for you. And, well,” he blushed suddenly and turned away, biting his lip. “Celebrían, she—”

Erestor refilled Elrond’s wineglass, relieved at the distraction. “Talk.”

 ~*~

Later, Ereinion held an informal gathering with his Court on the topic of increasing the arms trade between their Kingdoms. Elves clustered in the small antechamber, sussing out their contractual obligations and desires with each other while the King held council with Elrond. Erestor, a few paces away, had the mixed pleasure of watching Elrond stop, glance at him with something halfway between slyness and exasperation, and whisper in the King’s ear. Ereinion, damn him, actually _giggled._ Erestor fought to keep his face calm and aloof, but then Ereinion glanced to him, hiding his grin behind his hand, and Erestor couldn’t help himself. He smiled back, small but sure. There was something between them now, some thread beyond understanding and appreciation and, well, sex. Erestor let his smile rise and felt the thread strengthen.

After the court ended Ereinion beckoned him forward with that same crooked finger, grey eyes glinting. “Councilor,” he said as Erestor bowed. “It’s good to see you.”

At the King’s side Elrond snorted, running a hand through his hair. He wore it loose now in the style of the Númenorean nobility, and his restless hands couldn’t help twisting it up in whatever emotion he felt. Right now smugness was the emotion of the moment, but Erestor couldn’t bring himself to care. The ring on his thumb said that whatever teasing Elrond had in store for him was worth it.

Ereinion ignored Elrond, but it was the active sort of ignorance that only served to make Elrond _more_ self-satisfied. “I hear you spent some time among Men while you were in Maglor’s service. Did you have any contact with those under Sauron’s tyranny?”

Erestor nodded. “We did, your Majesty. We traveled among them for many years, our time with them ending perhaps two years back. We spent some time in along the coast, providing aid to Haradwaith refugees and escaping soldiers.”

“Good.” Ereinion rose and beckoned Elrond and Erestor to follow. “Come with me.”

That, really, was all the invitation Erestor needed.

They left the conversing elves behind and slipped out into the hallway. Elrond took his place in the lee of Ereinion’s wake, their robes billowing out behind them like twin banners. Erestor, to his surprise, found they shifted slightly in their relationship to each other, just enough to create a small hollow of Erestor’s own. Before, Erestor had tucked himself close to Elrond’s side, strung out on a line from the King. Now he felt netted, secured in their presence.

Ereinion took them through the winding halls of the palace grounds, a strange silence settling around his shoulders. The earlier teasing and cheeriness left. Erestor kept his eyes on the back of Ereinion’s neck and felt something growing in the space between their footsteps. It sat, shadowed, in the shift of Ereinion’s back, the waving line of his high-tail, the beat on his feet against the floor—an idea, a plan, some greater reality the King labored to form. The King’s will, rising to movement.

Erestor, in return, felt that strange emotion he had first felt upon meeting him— that smallness, the sensation of being _perceived._ He had spent long years among the Ñoldorin royalty, serving faithfully in the highest echelons of their ranks, and had become very used to threading his way through the brothers, visible yet unremarked in the grand scheme of things. But here, in the shadow of Ereinion’s wake, he felt _known_. Like Ereinion could pick him up, roll him between his fingers like a chess piece, and use him as he pleased.

There, in the simplicity of a hallway, Erestor shivered.

They turned away down a lesser corridor, finally coming to a tall, dark wood door. Elrond knocked, a quick rap of his knuckles, and they were soon ushered inside.

Elendil, lounging on a low couch, looked up from his papers with a slight grin. His Herald sat casually on the floor, more papers spread out before her questing fingers. Erestor blinked in surprise—he had not expected a personal audience with the King of Men, much less both Kings _at once._

“Good evening, my Lord, my Lady.” Ereinion took a seat on an opposite couch, Elrond alighting beside him. Erestor, unsure, took up a place standing behind Elrond’s shoulder.

“Good evening,” Elendil replied, looking over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles at them.

Ereinion grinned. “I’ve brought you a gift,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Erestor. “My Herald’s councilor, Erestor, who recently spent some extended time in the South among those escaping Sauron’s grasp. Ask of him what you will, I have no doubt his answers will please you. Erestor,” He met Erestor’s eyes, his hand outstretched to the King and his Herald. “His Majesty Elendil Nimruzîr, and his Herald, the Lady Tar-Asmaa.”

Erestor flushed and bowed to them, murmuring, “Your Majesty, my Lady.”

Elendil looked him over, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Erestor was it? Good. Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a chair next to his side.

Erestor went, feeling open and exposed. Tar-Asmaa peered at him with a pair of intense, gold-flecked eyes, no doubt cataloguing her impressions.

Elendil set aside his papers and took off his spectacles. “Well Erestor, you arrive at an opportune time—we were just discussing our current relationship with the south. Tell me, how did you come to travel there?”

Erestor inclined his head. “I traveled with my Lord Maglor Fëanorion, in whose service I have labored for many thousands of years. He led me south many times over the course of the Second Age, most especially in the early years.”

“So I take your journeys there was not of your own choice?” Elendil asked.

Erestor nodded in response.

“And why did Maglor desire to go?” He pressed further.

Erestor paused, hesitant. Much of Maglor’s life after the War was spent in sorrow, and Erestor thought it was not always wise or respectful to reveal such things, even to the King. Elrond however, gave no sign he should hold anything back, so he turned to Elendil and spoke. “After the Great War his spirit was much troubled, and so he wandered for many years over the length and breadth of Middle Earth. I attended him, often alone. Thus it was we came to pass through the whole of Harad and Khand, even into Mordor when it was not a dwelling-place for evil.” He glanced back to Elrond and Ereinion, who listened with a pleased silence. Elendil and Tar-Asmaa regarded him with a somewhat sharper glance, already sifting through his words for anything of value.

“That, however, was many years ago, just a few centuries after the Great War,” Erestor continued. “Nevertheless, even upon our visit to Mordor we encountered a vibrant people—mostly Men but a few Dwarves as well as a smattering of Avari. From what we gathered their ancestors had fled the Great War many generations before, and the memory of Morgoth was distant save in the minds of the Avari. When we left we did so happy and blessed by their hospitality, with promises to return and enjoy the beauty of their culture and heritage.”

Tar-Asmaa quirked her lip. “I presume such a thing never happened.” Her voice, heard for the first time, struck Erestor like a deep, ancient gong.

He shook his head, shoulders losing some of their arrow-straightness. “No, my Lady. Soon after, Sauron and his ilk entered the land, and since then none have been able to enter with peace and welcome. As such we set our sights northward, where Elrond, the son of my Lord’s heart, dwelt and sought rest with him.”

“So why did you return south?” Elendil inquired, his hand stroking his silver and black beard.

Erestor pursed his lips, hesitant. “You will have heard the sad fate of my Lord’s nephew, Celebrimbor, and of his betrayal at Gorthaur’s hand.” He paused, his hands tight on the hem of his robes. “We were there, all those many years ago, when Sauron marched on Eregion and brought it low. My Lord, he—we— saw. How Sauron mutilated and dishonored Celebrimbor’s body.”

The room drifted into a thick silence. Elrond, his hands white-knuckled on the couch cushions, looked away, blinking. Erestor sometimes forgot how gentle he was, how vulnerable to sorrow. Ereinion looked to Elrond and placed a light hand on his knee, his face still and cold with old fury. Elendil spared a brief glance for them, his gaze softening. He and Ereinion looked to each other, meeting in a shared, simmering anger.

Elendil turned back to his Herald, and he and Tar-Asmaa passed a meaningful frown between themselves. No doubt they too had their fair share of beloved dead ravaged under Sauron’s eye. Elrond and Ereinion certainly did.

Erestor ran his fingers over his ring. The sight of Celebrimbor’s body had been the least of it, in truth, a final brutality among many. The real blow had come much earlier, when Sauron sent locks of Celebrimbor’s hair to Elrond as a gift. Erestor and Maglor had been present when the messenger presented them with the lacquered box, opening it to reveal yards of shining raven hair and still-sticky blood. Maglor had gone pale, deathly so, his voice struck silent under the sudden tightness of tears. And yet, there was more— tucked alongside the hair was a strange crystalline device that, when Maglor touched it, filled the room with a cracked wail—Celebrimbor’s voice, stolen from his body. Elrond had smashed the device and set fire to the room. He had refused to douse the flames until it was gutted.

Erestor still had a few strands of that blood-matted hair, braided tight in a gold locket.

Tar-Asmaa’s jaw clenched. “What then?”

Erestor met her eyes and continued. “After Celebrimbor’s death I believe my Lord’s soul became…” he searched for a word. “Fragile. He had been such, perhaps, for a very long time, but this last wound broke him in a different way. We traveled south to aid any who might be leaving Sauron’s thrall, to offer them aid and healing. He was, I think, trying to offer himself the same through service to others. I,” he motioned to himself. “Have darker skin than many of the Ñoldor, and the tone of it is fairly close to that of the Haradrim. As such I was able to pass with very little disguise, and was able to travel further afield to find those who needed help than my Lord might have done alone.”

“What did you find?” Tar-Asmaa sounded like she had a very good idea as to what they found, but desired to test him all the same.

Erestor took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “Devastation. As you would expect. Their culture and heritage systematically destroyed, or twisted beyond recognition. Many Men and a few Dwarves fleeing, many of whom were only barely out from under the Nazgûl’s thrall. Others still under thralldom, sent into the desert to wander in torment or to torment those who were escaping. No Elves left—none we met had even seen our kind, much less heard of us.” He took a deep, steadying breath, but it did not keep his voice from cracking. “Gorthaur lives up to his name,” he managed, as if that were enough to encompass all he had seen.

The room sagged, heavy. Outside, song could still be heard and the fresh scent of flowers drifted in through the window, but inside the room everything felt sick and fatigued. Erestor supposed it was a good sign that Elendil and Tar-Asmaa could still feel horror, even after all they must have witnessed in Númenor, but he grieved to bring them such news.

Tar-Asmaa’s quill stilled. Elendil sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes. On the opposite couch Elrond’s hands tightened and released in the fabric of his robe, his chin tipped down.

Erestor looked up to meet Ereinion’s eyes. His gaze burned steel-cold. “Thank you, Erestor,” he said, “For your words, dire though they may be.”

Elrond turned to him as well, those amber-gold eyes tired and aching. “Dire indeed—sometimes I wonder how we remain in the face of such things,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Were you able to help them beyond any superficial healing?”

Erestor nodded, relieved. “In this, at least, I can give good news. We were able to offer great help to them with such medicine as was already available—song and seawater and athelas. No doubt in your hands,” he turned to Elendil, “Such things will be even more potent. Besides, they had many of their own healers, such that we formed only a tiny part of the whole effort. When we left we did so in the confidence that we were barely needed, and that those we left behind would not suffer our loss save for the love they bore us. Have you not met their healers? ”

Elendil took a deep breath and his shoulders relaxed. “We have met such healers among them, though they were very few and,” He grimaced, “Generally filled with distrust against us.”

Erestor furrowed his brow, confused. “Few? Perhaps there is something more afoot. When we left there were many, enough that they had formed a guild and were well equipped to serve their people and any newcomers. Perhaps Sauron endeavors to undo their efforts.”

“No doubt.” Elendil clenched his jaw and let out a long huff through his nose. “However, I am glad to hear your report on their own efforts toward healing. My sons have worked as hard as they can, but still they send me anguished letters over these broken people, our distant brethren. I had begun to lose hope.”

“Do not do so.” Erestor leaned forward. “Once broken of Sauron’s hold on their minds they only need whatever any of us need to heal—rest and kindness.”

“Ah,” Tar-Asmaa said. “That is good to know. We do worry about sorcery in these matters, especially dormant spells.”

“No, I don’t believe Sauron has the ability to re-awaken a spell once it is broken.” Erestor shook his head. “There are still thralls still under Sauron’s control who endeavor to do harm and who might disguise themselves as one of the healed.”

“An old tactic,” Elrond added. “One Sauron picked up from his master long ago. Tell me, Erestor, did you encounter any of these thralls while you were among the Haradrim?”

Erestor nodded. “We did, but perhaps not in the numbers you are now experiencing them. I imagine Sauron desires to hurt you specifically, your Majesty.” He nodded to Elendil. “However, once discovered, it wasn’t hard to draw them out of thralldom. They take a little longer to heal, but are not hopeless. The trick is to recognize the signs of thralldom separate from the signs of lingering trauma.”

Tar-Asmaa paused in her writing. “Did you have any continued problems with them once they were “healed”?” she asked, her mouth tightening into a flat line.

Erestor shook his head. “Nothing beyond what any other freed thrall might experience. It helped that Maglor and I had some prior experience— in the First Age there was a deep-seated distrust and prejudice against thralls, even those who had completely escaped Morgoth’s entanglements. There was one, however, who rejected such fears and welcomed all thralls into his house—Rog, Lord of Gondolin, mightiest of the Gondolindrim. He and all his House perished in the fall, but not until each of them took seven enemy lives for their own.” Erestor paused, remembering. When he continued he did so with a small, soft smile. “I met Rog, long ago. He bore many scars from his own time in thralldom, and many more from the battle in which he fought his way out with only the heavy chains that once bound him for a weapon. You will not find fiercer fighters, your Majesty, nor brighter hopes, than among those who have known thralldom.”

Elendil nodded, his eyes bright. Erestor could imagine the great turning wheels of his mind, machinery bent now to a new purpose. “Thank you, Erestor, for your council and knowledge. Tar-Asmaa,” he looked to his herald, who had just finished scribbling down her message.

She met his eyes and nodded. “At once, your Majesty.” She stood and, with a brief bow to Elrond and Ereinion, hurried out the door.

Elendil rose after her. “I’m afraid I must cut this audience short, as your words have placed much work before my hands. I will, however, require you again soon, as I imagine I shall have much more to glean from your experiences. My Lords,” He turned to Elrond and Ereinion, nodded, and followed his Herald.

The door closed with a muted _click._ Ereinion and Elrond remained seated, unmoving but for Ereinion’s hand softly running up the back of the couch to rest on the nape of Elrond’s neck.

Erestor left his seat to sit next to Elrond, close enough that their knees touched. “I’m sorry I did not have a chance to warn you,” he murmured. “That conversation was darker than I expected.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Elrond turned to him, his reproach more sad than angry. “I didn’t know things were so bad.”

Erestor sighed, sadness and anger slowly trickling out of him. It was an old feeling, one he was used to after long years among Fëanoryn and Haradwaith alike, but it left him feeling scraped and hollow. “I thought you knew, with your various scouts and intelligence networks. I’m sorry.”

Elrond rubbed his face with both hands. “It’s alright. I forgive you. I must apologize as well— I haven’t been sleeping well lately and find that I’m much more tender to these things than usual.”

“You are?” Erestor tamped down his urge to wrap Elrond in a blanket and snap at Ereinion to leave him alone for the day. “Nightmares?”

Elrond flopped back against the back of the couch, resting his head on Ereinion’s hand. “No. Maybe. I just keep thinking this war is going to be bad. Very bad.”

Erestor felt the blood in his veins chill. Elrond was primarily a being of joy, it was true, but joy only _barely_ held primacy over sorrow. Sometimes, in the soft in-between moments when Erestor got a good, long, look at him, he thought of those other great twins, Manwë and Morgoth. Or Melkor, as he was long-ago known, and as Manwë must call him still. Elrond’s joy and sorrow were like them, like two titanic forces warring inside him—and, in truth, sorrow was the stronger, like Melkor was the stronger of the two twins. But Manwë had aid in his family and friends and was thus victorious—and so Elrond’ joy eeked out a hard-fought victory. He was one who knew joy as a _choice,_ one who had labored for it every long hour of his life. But what did it mean for Elrond— who had witnessed the innumerable bodies littering the beaches of Beleriand, the hair of the dead hostages braided together to make nooses for the living in Eregion, his people besieged and starving in Imladris, the Great Eye carved into every inch of naked elven flesh those last days in Eriador— what did it mean for _him_ to say that this war was going to be _very bad?_ Just because Elrond fought for and attained some measure of happiness did not mean his memory was wiped clean.

Erestor looked to Ereinion, but Ereinion made no move to contradict Elrond’s words. Instead, the King watched Elrond with a fierce intensity, one that Erestor could not name.

“How bad, do you think?” Erestor laid his hand on Elrond’s knee as he asked, but he looked to Ereinion for answer.

Ereinion remained silent. His gaze did not waver.

Elrond looked down at his lap, rubbing the hem of his robe between two fingers. When he began speaking his voice dropped so soft that it slipped right through Erestor’s robes to cut deep between his ribs.

“There have been so few among the Eldar with the Sight, and fewer still among my relatives. But my grandmother had it, and though my parents did not—” he trailed off, looking away to the window. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” he huffed, waving his words away. “Pay me and my paranoid mind no attention.”

Erestor narrowed his eyes but let Elrond retreat from his words. Later, perhaps, his tongue would loosen.

“Besides,” Elrond brightened. “We have other things to discuss! Don’t we, _Ereinion?”_ He looked to his King with a far bigger grin than he had any right to have.

Erestor feigned annoyance and put his face in his hands, hoping to hide his flaming blush.

Ereinion chuckled. “You play a dangerous game, Herald mine. Should you rather not praise your Councilor than tease him? Once more you have given me a gift beyond price—Erestor’s council will no doubt prove its weight in mithril.”

Erestor peeked out between his fingers.

“I meant to tease _you_ , my King,” Elrond replied, sparing a mischievous glance for Erestor. “All my praise is forever reserved for my Councilor. Though I must admit, I did not anticipate you appreciating my gift in quite _that_ way.”

Erestor pinched him and Elrond jumped away with a yelp.

“I think,” Ereinion purred, unperturbed, “That I would be a great fool to not use such a gift to its fullest potential.”

Erestor was too far away to pinch him but he shot a look at the King nonetheless. “Be careful with your words, my Lords, lest your gift be given to other, more worthy, recipients,” he drawled, the underside of his words graced with a sliver of ice.

Then both Ereinion and Elrond turned to him with twin wolf smiles, indulgent and fond and _sharp,_ and Erestor stilled.

“Pray, do not do such a thing,” Ereinion replied. “I fear you have become too valuable for me to suffer your loss well—and this only in a short time! I imagine if you stay with my Court any longer you will soon weave yourself into the very foundations. I wonder, Elrond, if once that is accomplished we will be vulnerable to any foe at all.”

Erestor found himself struck dumb. And, oh, didn’t it feel _so good?_ To be wanted, esteemed for his service, to enrich the King’s understanding with his own—he _preened_ under the attention, and despite his attempts to remain recalcitrant he felt himself softening into downy fluff.

“Perhaps,” he managed to say, desperate not to dissolve away completely into happiness, “Next time you will warn me before you toss me to the next King as a housewarming present. Maybe you can devise some sort of signal— I hear bows and wrapping-paper are customary.”

Elrond laughed and took his hand. “I will buy you a ribbon, if you wish—green, for your eyes. Come, Let us find some food, I believe it is well past lunch and we have only a little time to rest before we must get to work again. Perhaps you will be more amenable to teasing with a full stomach.” He stood, pulling Erestor up with him. Ereinion followed in one smooth motion, watching the two of them with his now-customary keenness.

“Erestor,” he said, and Erestor turned back. Elrond, ( _traitorous brat_ ) slipped out the door before Erestor could even glare at him, leaving the two of them alone.

But if Erestor was expecting something sensual he didn’t receive it. Instead, Ereinion gave him a long, even look and murmured, “Well done.” Then he followed Elrond out the door, the long silver trail of his robe glinting like new snow behind him.

Erestor paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the wooden doorpost. He felt oriented, moored to the King like the moon to the earth. During the fullness of the day he gave of the keenness of his mind, while in the darkness his body rose in response. He laughed to himself—a gift indeed. All for the King, all for Ereinion. To have Ereinion pay attention to him _back_ sent his tongue sparking with a thousand unnamable things.

Erestor kept his fingers pressed tight on his ring and closed the door behind him.


	7. Dreams

A pall settled over Annúminas.

Talk of war began in earnest. Elrond and Ereinion were in Elendil and Tar-Asmaa’s company from the time the sun’s light hinted grey at the edge of the horizon to well into the night. Elrond’s shoulders grew oak-stiff and Ereinion’s mouth hardened into a blade-thin line. Their banter—Elrond’s playful smiles and Ereinion’s amused nods—faded into nonexistence. Elendil and Tar-Asmaa both were rarely seen without their ceremonial swords at their sides, the sway of their blades sweeping over the city in a cold, creeping tide.

Erestor found that both Kings required his council more than he ever thought possible, interrogating him about his experiences in the South as well as his knowledge of Sauron from his brief time in Celebrimbor’s court. His experience in the First Age as well proved useful, and increasingly the two Kings looked to him for advice on battle tactics and strategies. He answered as best as he was able, but found himself surprisingly relieved when Ereinion contradicted him or dismissed his propositions. It was somehow good to know that his own wisdom was being vetted by a wisdom he considered greater than his own, even if he was able to increase that wisdom through his contribution.

Elendil advocated for a fast, hard attack, to push the war to an end as quickly as possible before Sauron could muster his full strength. Ereinion advised patience, citing Sauron’s delight in treachery. Elendil snarled that Ereinion’s way was cruel and heartless. And, in truth, it was—Ereinion way would essentially mean advocating for a series of _tests,_ missions that would undoubtedly end in death to provide valuable information. Ereinion snapped back that Elendil’s path would ultimately end in more deaths, and more torturous ones at that, if they rushed into Sauron’s traps all at once. Elrond and Tar-Asmaa both ended up switching sides, with Tar-Asmaa desiring more prudence—she knew all too well Sauron’s wiles—and Elrond desiring a swifter end— no doubt thinking Celebrimbor’s life might’ve been saved had they pushed _that much harder._

Erestor left their presence rubbed raw, ill at ease with his memories. Most nights found him tossing back half a glass of the hardest liquor he could find to keep his dreams calm before crashing into an exhausted sleep.

And then there were Elrond’s nightmares.

And there were, in fact, nightmares. He did not speak of his poor sleep after that first time, but Erestor noted the rings under his eyes and the reluctance of his smile. Erestor waited, preferring Elrond to come to him himself, but as time drew on he lost patience.

Once night, after a particularly grueling day at Court, Erestor managed to catch Elrond before he went to bed. Enough was enough.

He found Elrond slumped on the couch in their shared sitting room, still in his formal robes. They crinkled and bunched under him as he breathed, tight but for the few undone clasps at his neck. The room was dark but for the glimmer of a few coals in the hearth. The windows were closed, and the air tasted thin and stale. Elrond’s head lolled against the back of the couch, his eyes closed and his delicate hands still at his sides, palms upturned. Stillness was troubling for Elrond, who so often filled the room with his elegant, bird-like motions, his thoughts on display.

Erestor closed the door softly behind him. Elrond cracked his eyes open at the sound, but then closed them when he saw who it was. He made no move towards greeting, or towards any gesture at all. He just sat, defeated.

Erestor let him be quiet for a little while, padding softly around the room to bank the fire in the hearth and to stir the coals in the lukewarm samovar. Once the water warmed to boiling he poured them two cups of tea and went to join Elrond on the couch.

“Elrond.” He set the teacups on the low table in front of him. “Drink.”

Elrond opened his eyes and heaved himself up, obeying. He reached out and took the teacup closest to him, curling his fingers around the hot porcelain.

Erestor took his own cup and blew on it too cool it. “So. You can either tell me why you haven’t been sleeping well or I can give you something that will ensure nothing will wake you until the sun cracks the horizon. You’ll be late for Court, but I’ll vouch for you and it won’t be a problem.”

Elrond chuckled softly. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you anyway.” He sipped his tea, wincing slightly at the heat. He went quiet again, his eyes half-lidded as he watched steam swirl up from his cup.

Erestor waited. Elrond would speak in time.

His teacup was half-drained when Elrond raised his voice again. “You were right about the nightmares. At first they were,” he waved his hand, movement returning in fits and starts. “More impression than anything else, quickly forgotten. Now they have become more real, more solid.”

“What do you dream?” Erestor finished his tea and set it aside.

Elrond gave a strained half-smile. “Your usual nightmare fare. Mithlond burning, the Kingdoms of Men and Elves enthralled. Maedhros returning as a balrog, Sauron speaking through Maglor’s voice. My brother dying. Nothing unusual.”

Erestor kept quiet, but put his hand on Elrond’s knee. He knew there was more—Elrond had gotten _very_ good at hiding his pain. When Elrond was a child, Erestor had learned through brutal trial and error the difference between happy and _manic,_ between stillness for the sake of peace and stillness for the sake of not jostling his inward wounds. This was the latter—Elrond trembled beneath his palm.

Elrond opened his mouth as if to continue, then closed it. Silence stretched between them. Then, “She’s there too. In my nightmares.”

“Celebrían?” Erestor asked, his thumb brushing up his knee.

Elrond nodded. “We—we’re married.” His face went soft, eyes hazing with some unseen happiness. “We have _children_. I don’t know how many—sometimes there’s a pair of twins, only they both look like Elros, and sometimes there’s a little girl, sometimes all three, and—she’d hate this— none of them have silver hair, they all have my hair—and _she’s_ there, in Imladris, and we are _radiant_ with happiness.” His voice catches. “And… and then she isn’t. And there’s all this purple, sticky blood on my hands and chunks of her silver hair falling through my fingers—” he cut off with a gasp, huge tears welling up and breaking down his face.

Erestor took both his hands in his own, squeezing.

“It’s foolish, I know,” Elrond hiccupped, releasing one hand to press against his mouth. “But that’s the one that gets me, the one that seems the most real—me, standing alone in a healing room, and all that’s left of her is—is blood, and _hair—_ ” He folded down over his knees, clutched Erestor’s hand to his chest, and sobbed.

Erestor curled himself over Elrond’s back and held him close, rubbing his free hand in sweeping circles over his shuddering shoulders. “Hush, little kestrel,” he murmured. “Hush, my dear.” Elrond sagged into Erestor’s lap, muffling his cries in Erestor’s robe. Erestor let him, holding him as close as he could.

They spoke no more after that. After a while Elrond’s tears slowed, and Erestor was able to help him out of his stiff clothes into soft sleeping robes.

“Ai,” Elrond mumbled, his forehead pressed up against the crook of Erestor’s shoulder. “Am I but a child again, that I need help in dressing myself?” He leaned against Erestor, heavy as a stone.

Erestor ran his hand along Elrond’s hair. “I should think not. But here, you have spent long days in sorrow and worry, and I would comfort you, if I could.”

Elrond sighed and straightened, some lightness returning to him. “What a dear friend you are,” he said, and pulled on the rest of his robes. “Thank you, Erestor.”

Erestor did give him something for sleep after all, but only a little to mute his dreams some. He sat on the edge of Elrond’s bed as he had countless times before, and kept his hand on the center of Elrond’s back until he fell asleep. Then, once he could feel the long, even breaths of sleep under his palm, he slipped out and went to find his own fitful way to sleep.

 ~*~

The next morning Erestor woke and rose to look out the window, hoping the sun would banish the linger cobwebs of sick worry. But as he looked over the city he didn’t see any sunlight through the dark clouds, only the dull glint of a line of swords moving in tandem in the courtyard below. A cluster of tiny needles, wavering in the wind.


	8. Joining

And after all that, there was yet space for levity.

 ~*~

They didn’t return for another month, during which time Ereinion kept his word and didn’t lay so much as a chaste kiss on Erestor’s cheek. The first few days were _agony,_ but Erestor had dealt with other stretches of impatience and was prepared to set aside his desire for the sake of diplomacy (and his own sanity).

He didn’t realize Ereinion was _allowing_ him to get comfortable until a week before they left, when he came up behind Erestor in an empty hallway and very carefully placed his hand on the small of his back. “Whatever are you up to, Councilor?” He murmured, leaning over Erestor’s shoulder to glance at the papers he held.

Erestor kept himself very still, that hand _burning_ through his robes. “Arms agreements, your Majesty.”

“Hmm.” Erestor could feel the heat from Ereinion’s chest as he brushed up against his arm. “I expect I’ll hear your opinions on the matter tonight at the Council?”

Erestor inclined his head. “Of course, your Majesty.”

“Good.” Ereinion lifted his hand away— _damn him—_ and, without the slightest hint of anything untoward, padded away down the hall.

Erestor wore a slim, sleeveless, dark-blue thing that night in retaliation.

This was a desperate mistake, seeing as Erestor had _severely_ underestimated his opponent.

Erestor entered the banquet hall already smug with his assumed victory, only to halt in the doorway as if struck.

Oh, that _bastard._

Ereinion wasn’t doing or wearing anything different, per say. Same crown, same carcanet, same formal robes. The one difference were the thin lines painted on the rims of his lashes. Erestor had seen many Men wear khol, even in different colors, but not in _gold._ And not with that _glint_ in their eyes as they looked over their wineglasses at _him,_ the pink of their tongues darting out to lick a stray drop of wine from their lips, _oh gods—_

Erestor steeled his shoulders. Two could play at this game.

 ~*~

That night Elrond shoved him in their rooms and locked the door, scowling. “By the _gods,_ Erestor, I did not become Herald to watch my _King_ and my _foster—_ ” he halted. “What are you, exactly? Unofficial extra foster-father?”

Erestor rolled his eyes, turning away to a bottle of wine sitting on a side table. “Maglor and Maedhros are your fathers. I am no such thing and therefore you may not scold me.” He poured his glass a little fuller than he meant and turned to sit on the couch, huffing.

He had lost. The game he and Ereinion were playing— he had lost _badly_ and now he was _blushing,_ dammit. First there was that wineglass and then later that _carcanet_ and if that wasn’t enough _then—_

Elrond threw up his hands. “I will scold you whenever I wish! For the Valar’s sake _put some clothes on_.”

Erestor looked down at himself. “I’m wearing more clothing than at least half of the people in that room.”

Elrond folded his arms. “ _Sleeveless,_ Erestor? For you that’s practically nude.”

Erestor took a gulp of his wine. “If I desire to make myself a _slattern_ then you can’t stop me.” The one upside to this whole situation was that Elrond had lost most, if not all, his smugness.

“ _Eru Above—_ ” Elrond buried his face in his hands, a manic giggle escaping his throat. “I give up. Make of yourself a _slattern,_ as you put it. I care not.”

Erestor only barely contained his eye-roll. “Thank your for your gracious permission, my Lord.”

“Oh no,” Elrond waved him away. “I merely leave you to your own devices, which I’m certain will only get you in more trouble. As much as I respect you, Erestor, I’m placing my bet on Ereinion.”

 ~*~

The rest of the week proved Elrond’s words disastrously true. It didn’t help that Erestor didn’t feel like he had the same liberty to touch Ereinion as he did him—it was one thing, of course, for the King to touch you and another for _you_ to touch _the King._ Ereinion pressed his advantage to the fullest, caring as little for fair play as he did for the dust under his feet. He was forever finding excuses to crowd into Erestor’s space, “accidentally” brushing his fingers over Erestor’s wrist as they examined a map, or running his hand down the length of his spine as he passed by. He was still incredibly respectful of Erestor’s boundaries—nothing in public, nothing that could be perceived by outside eyes, but _everything else_ was fair game. And yet, he remained _maddeningly_ chaste. He never touched Erestor in a way that couldn’t also be interpreted as the casual intimacy between King and Councilor, as a sign of approval and trust. And that was the other problem, of course: After so many years alone Erestor was upsettingly _easy._ Every touch, no matter how Ereinion intended it, made him weak-kneed with want. And oh, those _eyes—_ Ereinion made a habit of catching his gaze in the silent moments between conversations, half-lidded and cool. It was the kind of look that said _my unflappable exterior hides all sorts of fascinating things, Erestor. Wouldn’t you like to find out what those things are?_ Erestor, if he was still cognizant by the time he got to bed, only ever managed to get a few half-hearted strokes in before giving up and staring down at his limp cock like it had _betrayed_ him. He didn’t want to pleasure himself alone, he wanted Ereinion to hold him down and make him _scream._

There was one moment of victory, and to this he clung as the days seemed to grow long into infinity. It was during a lull in one of their meetings, and Elrond and Tar-Asmaa were cloistered together in deep conversation. This left Ereinion somewhat exposed, so without thinking Erestor moved into the lee of Ereinion’s side to cut off any upstart courtiers from stealing the King’s ear during this rare moment of rest. Ereinion had his eye on the Heralds anyway, absorbed in their conversation.

“—no, I believe we should be investing more in spear training,” Elrond was saying, pointing down to the schedule list between them. “We’ll need the versatility against Sauron’s creatures. Perhaps later, if there’s time, the King could give us a demonstration with aeglos.”

“How tempting,” Erestor murmured, low enough that only Ereinion could hear. He said it mostly off-hand, one illicit tease among many, but as he did he let the hem of his robe ghost over Ereinion’s arm.

Ereinion grew very, very still. A vicious red blush crept up the back of his neck, hidden only by the high collar of his carcanet. And oh, wasn’t that _interesting—_ it seemed Erestor had caught him _off-guard._ Erestor let the moment stretch almost to breaking point, savoring the way the tips of Ereinion’s ears glowed scarlet. Then, mustering all of his feline grace, he simply walked away and let Ereinion _watch._

He paid for it later, of course. When he wore that damned sleeveless thing again Ereinion ran his hand down Erestor’s bare arm in one long, uninterrupted caress and nearly ended him on the spot but even so, he maintained his resolve. He had _seen_ that blush, and was determined to see it again.

 ~*~

Mithlond was just settling down for the night when they finally made it home, curling up in the purple sea-mists like a nest of pearls. The company, eager for hearth and home, dispersed quickly, branching out into the city and disappearing into their own beloved doorways. The palace grounds, lit with paper lanterns for the King’s return, glowed a soft gold as the few remaining members of the company trotted up the avenue. Grooms and various other household members appeared, ready to receive them, wisping figures already in their night robes.

In the back of his mind Erestor kept whispering the word that would open the door in the wall surrounding Ereinion’s garden. But it remained a distant whisper only—even though it was evening and they had been traveling all day, there were letters to send, luggage to organize. Elrond didn’t have his own proper Household here, but if he did Erestor would be his seneschal. It was up to him to order his Lord’s needs so Elrond could slink off and sleep.

Ereinion wasn’t so lucky. There were at least ten different things that were classified as “requiring immediate attention”, and a few more besides marked “extremely urgent.” Erestor thought that perhaps two of those missives actually deserved those labels, but the King had to attend to them, even so.

Thus it was that more than a few hours had passed when Erestor, finally nearing the end of his duties, ran across Ereinion in the hall. He spared only half a glance for the King’s furrowed brow, deep in thought, and made to slip past him and give him space to work. But then Ereinion looked up and caught his eye, and Erestor paused.

“Erestor,” Ereinion said, his voice soft.

The hall was empty, save for them. There was no sound coming from around the corners, no one nearby.

Erestor padded over to stand in front of him, a hair too close for casual. “Yes, my King?”

Ereinion made no move to touch him, but his eyes flared. “It grows late, and there are yet things that call my name,” he said, answering the question Erestor had not thought to ask. “If you grow tired, Councilor, then perhaps it is best you find rest for the night.”

Erestor leaned half an inch closer, a sly smile on his lips. “And if _I_ should call your name? Come now, my King, I appreciate the concern, but I believe,” his voice dipped low, “That I’ve waited long enough.”

Ereinion relaxed, laughing lightly. “And what of me? What of my weariness?” he reached out to cup Erestor’s face in his hand and _oh—_ Erestor _purred_ with the pleasure of that sweet, gentle, _burning_ touch.

“I had not thought of your weariness, nor do I intend to,” he replied archly.

Ereinion pinched the tip of his ear. “Impudent little thing, aren’t you,” he muttered, but his voice was layered with deep fondness.

Erestor placed a hand on that broad chest. “And who’s to say I will not make it worth your while?” he murmured, at last pressing the length of himself against Ereinion’s body. “Never let it be said that I failed to please my King.”

Ereinion’s hand drifted into his hair, gripping hard at the nape of his neck. “Valar forbid,” he replied, voice hazy with lust. Then he swept down and _kissed_ him, open mouthed and edged with _teeth_ —Erestor surged up under him, clutching hard at the sleeves of his robe oh _finally, finally, yes, please yes—_

And all too soon Ereinion pulled away, tugging Erestor back by his hair. Erestor looked up at him, panting hard, hands slinking around his back to pull him closer.

“I’ll meet you in my chambers,” Ereinion leaned down to growl in his ear. “Don’t prepare yourself too thoroughly—I want to take my time with you.”

Erestor shivered. Then he stepped away, bowing deeply. “As my King commands,” he replied, and hurried down the hall before Ereinion took away his power to walk with just his voice alone.

And if Ereinion sent him away with a slap on his ass, well, no one was around to prove it.

 ~*~

Ereinion’s chambers were much like he remembered, only neater—maybe neater than Ereinion liked. Erestor padded through the garden to the open-faced bedchamber, noting how the straightened rugs, parallel to the wall in crisp lines. The quilts were tucked in sharp corners over the mattress, the chains of jewels now artfully looped in careful patterns. Erestor reached up and tugged at them, pleased when they fell back into cobweb tangles. The King, he deemed, was nothing more than a large cat when in his own space, content to unspool his presence from the strict confines of public life and laze around. All this pristine cleanliness didn’t seem right, somehow.

He found a private bathing chamber tucked away around a corner next to a few other interior rooms. Octagonal stone walls curled around a deep pool, with stacks of towels and intricate bottles of perfumed soap lining the edges. The water swirled in the low light, the surface wrinkling and steaming with heat. He stripped, folding his clothes in languid anticipation. If the water felt half as good as it looked, all the knots from the road were going to be gone in _seconds._

 _Ngh—yes._ Erestor sank down in the water, letting himself relax for the first time in what felt like ages _._ The dust and grime, built up after weeks on the road, sloughed off. The line of soaps lay conveniently within arm’s reach and he helped himself, lathering his body with something that smelled like sweet, clear air, like the sky after rain.

He didn’t dare linger, however. There were orders to follow.

A quick search among the bottles and he found what he was looking for. A small blue bottle yielded a pale oil, and when he rubbed his fingers together and held them to his nose it smelled of lavender and sage. He did as he was told and didn’t prepare himself too thoroughly—his own hand was feeling highly inadequate anyway— but who would blame him if he spent a little time basking in the privacy of the King’s chambers? When he stepped out of the bathing chamber wrapped in one of the fluffy towels, he felt warm and pleasantly buzzed with anticipation.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and let his long ebony hair down out of its braids, combing it straight with his fingers and idly wondering if he should dress or let Ereinion come in on him naked. Dressing had the benefit of _undressing_ later, but Erestor wanted to make Ereinion gasp, to hear that hitch in his breath when he was surprised. Walking in on a naked elf sprawled over your sheets in the starlight might do the trick. And, in truth, Erestor was a vain creature. He liked feeling beautiful, liked people looking at him with admiration and desire. And, well, when one such as the King looked at him that way, it was hard not to preen a little. He tossed the damp towel away and stretched over the cool quilt, bare save for the winking opal ring on his thumb.

Night sounds ebbed and swelled, bullfrogs and nightingales opening their throats in song. The moon, once more a sliver, rose up over the wall to cast its weak shadow over the garden, the edge of the bed. Erestor rolled over on his belly, content to doze. Ereinion would arrive when he could, and Erestor would be waiting still. It was no hardship—despite Ereinion’s _maddening_ flirtation these past few weeks (which he had not forgotten and had not forgiven), these last few moments of waiting would only serve to sweeten their eventual end. So he pillowed his head on his arms and let himself be lulled into drowsiness by the breeze drying his back and hair.

He woke, not to the sound of Ereinion entering the room, but to the dip of the mattress as Ereinion sat next to him.

“Hello,” Ereinion smiled as Erestor glanced up at him over his shoulder. Erestor took in the pleased curl in his lip, the top clasps of his robe undone, and oh, _there_ it was, that sunset-pink blush creeping up his throat.

“Hello,” he returned, arching his back as he stretched. He didn’t miss the way Ereinion’s eyes lowered with lust, the way he licked and bit his lower lip.

“By the gods, you’re a beautiful thing,” Ereinion murmured and ran his hand down Erestor’s spine, dragging liquid lightning in his wake. “I might chain you to my bed after all.”

“Hmm,” Erestor leaned up on his elbows and pressed into the touch, his hair falling around his shoulders. Ereinion had his hand on his thighs now, kneading. Erestor pushed up into his hand, spreading his legs a little. “I believe you’ll have to do some work convincing me it’s worth my while to stay, and to not call Elrond to rescue me.”

“Well then,” Ereinion chuckled. “There’s no time to lose if I’m to have you fitted with a collar by sunrise.” Now _there_ was an image. Erestor didn’t yet know if he would have enjoyed a collar—he had always balked at any idea of ownership or commitment, despite his teasing— _until now._ Perhaps something similar to that silver carcanet, something Ereinion could hook his fingers under and drag Erestor down to his cock— Erestor felt his mouth water.

Ereinion stood and began unclasping the rest of his robe. Erestor pouted a little at the loss of his hand, but was quickly comforted by the slow, sensual way Ereinion removed his clothing. He pushed his thick, formal robe off with a roll of his shoulders and let it pool at his feet, leaving him in a sheer under-shift and leggings. Through the thin veil of fabric Erestor could see the way his cock curved up under his leggings, long and thick.

“I grow impatient, your Majesty,” he muttered, his own cock hard between his body and the sheets. He shifted his hips and the brush of fabric lit sparks under his skin, already so sensitive.

Ereinion _tsked,_ drawing the shift up over his head. “Patience, Councilor. If you are this belligerent you’ll never be fit for a collar at all.”

Erestor rolled over, draping himself over the quilt in a shameless display. “I thought you appreciated my sharp tongue, my King, but if you doubt its usefulness I shall just have to find other ways to prove myself to you.”

Ereinion narrowed his eyes at him until only a thin sliver of glowing starlight was left, ravenous. Erestor could _sense_ Ereinion’s jests crumbling under the tide of his desire, could smell it like a thunderstorm in the air. Then, with a final twist of fabric, he stood bare before him, tall and golden and flushed and _hungry,_ oh— Ereinion grinned down at him, wide and sharp.

“At _last_ —” He stalked forward, bending down to climb up the bed. “You infuriating creature, you tempting little thing, you—” he growled, his voice barely more than a rasp. “You have made my life _agony._ ”

Erestor _shivered,_ only barely managing to pull himself together enough to shuffle back up the bed against the pillows, retreating as Ereinion crawled up between his legs. “Have I? Then—” but he didn’t get a chance to finish, for Ereinion dove down to claim his mouth, dissolving all the clever words in his throat into a moan.

“Imagine,” Ereinion rumbled, finally releasing Erestor to let him gasp for air. His lips ghosted over Erestor’s throat, breath hot. “Parading the most gorgeous creature you’ve _ever seen_ through the whole of Arnor, knowing that, with a word, he would crawl to your bed on his hands and knees— _imagine,_ ” he bit down on the crook of Erestor’s neck, worrying the skin into a tender bruise. “Imagine _watching_ and never _touching—”_

“I was _there,_ you fool—” Erestor hissed, yanking back on his hair, but Ereinion simply shifted his weight and pinned him to the bed.

“I’m going to make you _pay_ for that little stunt you pulled with that wineglass,” oh, he had _noticed—ah—_ Ereinion licked a hot stripe up the column of his neck, growling low in his ear. The broad length of his body loomed over him, wheat-gold hair cascading down to pool against Erestor’s chest.

“You hypocrite, as if you didn’t give as good as you got,” Erestor snapped, bucking his hips in a futile effort to throw him. All those little touches, those secret glances, that _gold khol_ —

Ereinion simply nipped the tip of his ear and ground down in a low, sensuous roll, unyielding. “Oh, I _intend_ to,” he promised.

Yes, _yes—_ Erestor threw back his head with a groan, hands tight in that wealth of hair. _Finally._

Ereinion sucked another bruise in the skin on his breast, a purple brand right above his hammering heart. “How do you want me to take you,” he murmured, hands drifting up to dig in the hair at the base of Erestor’s neck. His voice cut ragged, all the teasing and flirting scraped away.

“ _Ngh—”_ Erestor thrashed against him, pinned— “Whatever way you want, Ereinion, _please—”_

“Hush,” Ereinion pressed a light kiss to his lips. “Let me take care of you.” Then he pulled back, relenting, and rolled to the side to sit up against the headboard. “Come here,” he commanded.

Erestor heaved himself up into his lap, draping himself over Ereinion’s chest and spreading his legs wide around his waist. Here he could move as he pleased and he took full advantage, running his hands over every inch of creamy smooth skin he could reach and rolling his hips down _hard._ Erestor’s cock brushed against the flushed jut of Ereinion’s cock, the two of them already leaking over Ereinion’s belly. Erestor could feel his breath hitch, panting hard at the feel of it all, the overwhelming sensation of another’s skin against his own ( _no, not just another’s, Ereinion’s skin, his—_ ) Ereinion, his face flushed and his eyes hazy with bliss, reached up to cup his face in his calloused hands and hauled him close for a burning kiss.

And then, _then—_ all the fruitless teasing and arrested flirting caught fire in a blaze of pure, real pleasure, their clever words falling away before the _joy_ of touching each other at last, _at last._ Everything in the world condensed down to one blazing point of light. They kissed and caressed and surged up against each other, lost in the feel of hands and skin and tongue and teeth _—_ a myriad of sensations dawning like the first rays of sunlight, all those many years ago. Erestor cradled Ereinion’s face in his hands, needing to feel close to this _incandescent_ being, this impossibility made flesh—

Ereinion let go of his thighs for a brief moment, but returned with the blue bottle. Erestor took it from him and un-stoppered it, upturning the oil into Ereinion’s palm. Ereinion tugged him a little higher on his lap, high enough that his cock tapped up against the back of Erestor’s thigh, and set his slick hand to work.

At that first breach Erestor felt one great shudder wrack through him and he sagged, boneless, against Ereinion’s chest. Ereinion chuckled, vibrating through his chest to Erestor’s bones, and kissed the sensitive skin under his ear.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Councilor?” He grinned, pressing further inside.

“Y-you _tyrant_ —” Erestor managed, his mouth smearing along Ereinion’s collarbone. Ereinion added another finger and he groaned, hands clutching weak and trembling in Ereinion’s hair. Oh, _Ereinion—_ this elf was going to _kill him._

Ereinion—that _bastard—_ probably preferred things this way. Relaxing back against the bed, splayed-out casual, while the elf in his lap writhed in pleasure. He couldn’t see what he was doing but he could most definitely _feel_ it, could feel Erestor shaking and grinding against him. Despite his solidness, however, Erestor knew he wasn’t as controlled as he seemed—his free hand dug bruises into Erestor’s hip, his cock pushed hot and urgent against the cleft of his ass. Erestor kissed along his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth, anywhere he could reach, banking star-fire in those mithril-silver eyes, drawing sweet groans up from deep in that broad chest.

Ereinion took his time—nearly an _hour and a half_ — just fingering him open, pressing up into him and letting Erestor rut up against his belly in tiny, helpless jerks. By the time he finally pulled his fingers out Erestor was weeping precome and snarling into the crook of his neck—weakly now, he’d been on the edge so long he didn’t know if it was night or day.

“Are you ready?” Ereinion whispered in his ear.

Erestor nodded _yes_ he’d been ready for a thousand years _yes—_

Ereinion lifted him up, meaning to roll over him but Erestor mustered the last of his strength and shoved him down. “No,” he growled, pressing Ereinion back to the headboard with a firm hand on the center of his chest. “ _My turn.”_ Then, rising up on trembling thighs, he took Ereinion’s cock in his hand and pressed it up against him.

Ereinion watched, lips parted and eyes wide, “ _Erestor—”_

Erestor grinned, feral. He sank down, achingly slow, Ereinion’s thick cock filling him inch by inch. Ereinion’s hands tightened. Then, with a final sigh, Erestor settled himself flush against Ereinion’s hips, satisfied at last. He let himself adjust for a moment, running his hands feather-light through the sweat and precome smudged together on Ereinion’s belly. “ _Mmmm…”_ he hummed, arching back to give an experimental nudge with his hips. Ereinion’s cock curved up inside him, heavy and thick and _perfect._ “Now, my King,” he leaned close to whisper against his mouth. “Don’t come until I tell you to.”

Ereinion trembled, jaw clenched.

Then Erestor sat back, set his shoulders, and began to _ride._

Now it was Ereinion’s turn to flutter and shake, trapped beneath the rolling tide of Erestor’s hips. Erestor grinned, triumphant—Ereinion, held captive between his thighs, yes, _his—_ Ereinion moaned, his breath stuttering, and thrust his hips up. Erestor caught the rhythm and matched it, ruthless and unsparing up until the moment Ereinion reached down and circled a slick hand around his cock, pumping in time and then _oh— “Ereinion—!”_ His peak hit him like a tidal wave, breaking golden over him as he painted Ereinion’s chest with come. He arched up, strung tight, and then all at once his remaining energy left him and he curled down over Ereinion, still but for the heaving of his chest.

Ereinion didn’t move save for the twitch in his jaw, his cock pulsing deep inside. Erestor winced slightly at the steel of his fingers, digging deep in his ass and thighs, but Ereinion remained stone-still.

 _Oh_ , he was being _obedient,_ wasn’t that _fascinating—_

Erestor pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Come for me, Ereinion.”

And then, between the space of one second and the next Ereinion had him on his back, his legs slung over Ereinion’s shoulders and his ass in the air and Ereinion gave him one breath to prepare himself before he _slammed_ in, merciless and fast and oh, _oh—_ Erestor _screamed,_ his voice breaking as Ereinion took his pleasure. Erestor found himself absolutely _lost_ , over-stimulated and raw with the unending bliss of Ereinion’s cock deep inside him, that broad body arching like a waterfall over his limp form. It wasn’t long before Ereinion’s hips faltered once, twice, and he came with a rough moan muffled in the crook of Erestor’s neck. He slowed, grinding out his pleasure for a few moments more before relenting, drooping down and trying to regain his breath. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he panted, head hung low.

Erestor snorted. “Says the one who just spent a significant amount of time trying to kill _me,_ ” he replied. Good. His voice might be gone but his sharp tongue wasn’t.

Ereinion kissed his cheek and chuckled, but didn’t reply further.

Erestor winced as he shifted and pulled away with a wet squelch, leaving him feeling sore and sticky and empty. He could feel come and slick dribbling out of him—so much for the sheets. Ereinion didn’t seem to mind for the moment, content to get comfortable and rest until they both regained the use of their faculties. Erestor let himself be rearranged, his legs lowered and tucked along Ereinion’s flanks, and Ereinion settled down into what Erestor was beginning to realize was his preferred spot, situated square on Erestor’s chest.

Erestor eyed him. “You’re too heavy, my Lord.”

“Strange,” Ereinion mused, tracing the column of Erestor’s throat with his tongue. “You weren’t saying so a few minutes ago.”

“A few minutes ago you were making it worth my while.” Erestor rolled his eyes, but made no move to push him off.

“And is not the mere presence of your King worth your while?” Ereinion nipped at an already sore spot. “And here I thought you were a loyal subject of mine.”

“You press your luck,” Erestor grumbled, but couldn’t find much more to say beyond that. Ereinion’s hair was liquid silk under his fingers and he buried both hands up to the wrist in those long strands.

Ereinion shuffled back slightly, folding his hands on Erestor’s chest and propping his chin on them. Erestor caught his gaze, looking up at him in a pleased smugness. He had a mischievous glint in his smile and Erestor narrowed his eyes—a smug Ereinion was almost always a handful.

Undeterred, Ereinion said, “Did you enjoy the bath?” His fingers found Erestor’s still-damp hair and twirled it.

Erestor hummed in affirmation. “This day you have lost a councilor and gained a Sea-Maia, my King. From now on I’ll only leave your bath for your bed, and even then only if you coax me.” Erestor tucked a strand of Ereinion’s hair behind his ear, relenting with a soft smile.

“A Sea-Maia, hmm?” Ereinion leaned his head into the scratch of Erestor’s nails. Yes, nothing so more than a big cat. “Don’t they deal in riddles and secrets?”

“Perhaps,” Erestor replied. “I have never met one, not in all my long years in Aman and Middle Earth.”

Ereinion smiled, the starlight in his eyes bright and full. “Tell me a secret, my Sea-Maia.”

Erestor frowned. “A secret?”

“Yes. A secret.” His tongue stuck out between his teeth. “As a gift in exchange for the bath.”

“Is this your idea of an afterglow? Interrogating your lovers? You must really be out of practice,” Erestor scoffed.

Ereinion laughed. His shoulders cast a shadow over Erestor, a deep purple color. “Perhaps. But I like to hear you talk, and you talk so little about yourself. Come, tell me some small secret.”

“I don’t talk about myself because there is hardly anything to tell,” Erestor held out his hand, gesturing over himself. “I am old. I am cranky. I have a sharp tongue. All these things are known.”

Ereinion waited, drawing his forefinger along Erestor’s shoulder. “Humor me. Or not, if you so prefer. I could take you to the bath instead, and renew my admiration for your body instead of your thoughts.”

He was playing a _game,_ Erestor realized. One of those little games lovers played. Somewhere inside his chest Erestor felt something stirring, betraying the scowl on his face. It was that same cat-eyed pride, preening. He was so weak for attention.

“Alright then. A small secret.” Erestor leaned back, thinking.

Ereinion nestled up close, a smug grin on his face. Erestor restrained himself from smacking him away.

Unbidden, a flash of a memory came to him. An old desk, a ruined House—and two tiny elves scampering through the halls. He was too tired, too relaxed with happiness to push the memory away. Twin heads of sable hair, one short and one long. Small hands in his, growing larger until they outstripped his own.

Erestor hummed. “Perhaps this isn’t a small secret, or even a secret at all, but I’ll tell you anyway.” He turned to Ereinion and slipped his hand in the crook of his neck. When he spoke again, his voice dropped to a whisper. “I have only ever loved two people in my entire life.” He didn’t know why, exactly, he was revealing this and not some other frivolous thing, but somehow it seemed to him that on this, their first night making love together, he should give Ereinion something valuable.

Ereinion nodded, understanding. “Elrond and Elros.”

Erestor nodded back. “Perhaps it’s cruel of me to say it. I had affection for my parents insomuch I was their child, respect for my Lords and their House, and friendship and companionship with others. But I didn’t love—really _love,_ in the way I understand love— anyone until I met those two lost children. Not even Maglor. I felt a deep devotion for him—and perhaps some would call that love, same as my affection for my parents and my friendship with others.” Erestor gave a sad smile, melancholy piercing through. “But I don’t. I reserve my love only for them.” Perhaps it was a stupid secret to share, too heavy and too big all at once and _certainly_ not the sort of thing for pillow-talk, but it didn’t feel wrong. His words diffused through the night air, a sweet tenderness left in their wake.

Ereinion kissed him once, twice, and wrapped him up in his strong arms, pressing close. Erestor chuckled, twining his hands in Ereinion’s hair. “What do you think of that, hmm? Perhaps not the most romantic thing to say in bed.”

Ereinion paused, considering. “I’m happy you told me, even if it is an unromantic sort of thought. But I think we understand each other well, Councilor. Your love for Elrond will always hold primacy in your heart, and my love for my Kingdom will never be usurped. Only, perhaps I am lucky—those whose love could have usurped my Kingdom’s died before it was mine. But are we so very different?”

“I suppose we aren’t,” Erestor replied. “Though this is nice too,” he ran his thumb along Ereinion’s lower lip. “One grows lonely for a good fuck every now and again, and companionship besides. Certainly Elrond would never take me to bed, not that I would want him to.”

Ereinion chuckled and kissed the center of his breastbone. “And a Kingdom will always leave me lonely, I deem. I agree, your presence here comforts me. But come, enough of serious secrets,” he lifted up off Erestor’s chest. “Let’s see about returning my Sea-Maia to the bath.”


	9. Tempo

After that they settled into a rhythm, calm and steady as the ocean’s tide. They led their separate (or not so separate, depending on how one looked at it) lives in Court during the day, and then, in the evening after their duties were done, Erestor would climb out his open window and make his way to Ereinion’s bedchambers. Sometimes Ereinion would be there, waiting for him, but often Erestor would arrive early. That was comforting to him, in a way. There was something beautiful in arriving to an empty room, in the knowledge that Ereinion trusted him with him most private space.

Once inside, Erestor would pad through the garden, slip off his robes in a heap at the foot of the bed to let Ereinion know he was there, and wander to the bathing room for a long bath. After awhile he took to bringing some scrolls to look over or a book to read, and more often than not Ereinion would find him lounging in the tub with his hair tied up, wrinkling the pages with the steam. After the second or third time Ereinion cleared a patch of towel-shelf for his books and that was that.

Sometimes they’d fuck, sometimes they wouldn’t. Sometimes Ereinion, full of fire and sparking with starlight, would keep him in his arms till sunrise. He tended to like it rough, liked mixing a fair amount of pain with his pleasure. Biting and scratching, yes, but he also _loved_ it when Erestor yanked him down by the hair and fucked his throat, or when he bit and worried at Erestor’s nipples until they were bruised and tender for days afterwards.

Erestor, in truth, could have gone either way on the pain, but he enjoyed Ereinion’s pleasure, his trust. After a few nights of rough play he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t the pain itself, necessarily, that Ereinion enjoyed, but pain as a pathway into experiencing the trust between them, in plumbing the depths of it. Erestor was beginning to get the impression that Ereinion didn’t really trust anyone—not surprising for a King, but not something to which Erestor had given much thought. Sure, Ereinion trusted others insofar as he trusted them to act certain ways, each according to their own internal compass, but Erestor couldn’t think of anyone he _trusted_ save Elrond.

And, apparently, Erestor. Strange, that. But when Erestor had Ereinion on his knees—hands bound, eyes glazed, mouth _full—_ he couldn’t think of any other way to quantify it other than _he trusts me._

But that only came up in their sexual play and, despite that obvious trust, Erestor was actually surprised when there ended up being more to the two of them than just sex and mutual professional admiration. Often, Ereinion would take him out to the grounds and just wander with him for a few hours, silent save for his low cat-purr humming. This happened most often after they had already made love and Ereinion would go bare save for a pair of loose house-pants and his ever-present rings. The cool night air would dust his skin with a layer of chill and Erestor would run his hands over that great plane of his back and feel goosebumps rise in his wake. Then they would lie down in that clearing and Ereinion would gather him up close and doze. Overhead Erestor would watch the stars slide through the sky, feeling the loamy deep green scent of slowly growing things fill his lungs with low, moss-soft thoughts. Thoughts like the color of Ereinion’s hair as it fell loose down his back in one uninterrupted wheat-sheaf. Thoughts about how Elrond had grown into such an abundance of graces, surpassing every Lord Erestor had known—the old Kings of Aman included. Thoughts wondering why the long, tangled, bloody rope of his life had finally coiled here, under the canopy of a King’s forest, in the crook of a King’s arm. Thoughts like how it was nice to have company in Ereinion, even if it was only in this small way for whatever time they had left. Erestor thought Ereinion disliked being alone even though being a King meant being _set apart_ in some way and Ereinion, of course, was a _very_ good King. When Erestor thought about that unbearable, necessary loneliness the whole world suddenly became too big, too sharp, and he would have to duck his head closer under Ereinion’s chin and clutch him close.

There were other nights when Ereinion came to Erestor bowed low with weariness and sadness, capable of not much more than being herded into bed and cuddled. Those nights Erestor plied him with tenderness—little reminders that for now, at least, they were not alone. He would braid Ereinion’s hair back in a loose sleep-braid, taking care to bury his fingers close to the scalp. Waves of shivers would wash over Ereinion’s back as Erestor massaged and braided, teased and pulled. _Here, I am here,_ his fingers said as they ghosted along the shell of one elegant, fluted ear. _And you are here with me._ Then, once Ereinion was somewhat loosed from his heaviness, Erestor would spoon up behind him, tuck his legs close, and press kisses to his freckled shoulder blades. Ever had Erestor been a creature of service, though perhaps no task before had been quite so pleasurable as feeling Ereinion melt under his hands. Ereinion, for his part, rewarded him _handsomely._

Mostly, their routine fell somewhere between the two extremes—good sex with someone familiar with their preferences, bath-time political arguments, sheets stolen in the night, soft songs drifting in the breeze. Sometimes Erestor would stay the night, sleep curled skin-to-skin and wake covered in kisses. Sometimes, after a few hours of sex or conversation or simply silent company, Erestor would leave through the door in the wall and return to his own rooms to sleep alone. There were, of course, nights he didn’t go at all. Occasionally Elrond needed him, and together they’d stay up late hashing out the latest decree or even just sitting around the fire with the samovar, enjoying each other’s company. Those nights Erestor would excuse himself for a brief moment and go to the King’s office. Ereinion let him in without knocking, now, and he’d slip inside for a brief kiss before returning to Elrond. He didn’t need to let Ereinion know he wasn’t going to be there for the night—he and Ereinion had a loose enough relationship as it was— but he liked to, nonetheless.

Ereinion never came to his rooms, nor did he ask to. He understood that there were some things Erestor needed, and inviolate space was one of them. But he liked having Erestor in _his_ space, in all the little ways his room changed now that another spent time there. Erestor caught him once or twice contemplating the stack of books, or the scattered robes, a soft curl in his mouth. It was the sort of desperately sentimental thing he never allowed himself outside of the bedroom. Maybe his earlier words were truer than Erestor realized—maybe his Kingdom _had_ left him lonely. He had an edge to him sometimes, something that only came out when he was well-fucked and sore—a limning of wistfulness or mournfulness, Erestor couldn’t tell which. It made Erestor feel sharp and tender and a strange sort of… _crunchy._ Like broken shells underfoot.

He was beginning to think that, when all this ended, he might be very sad to lose Ereinion indeed.


	10. Headache

Oropher arrived in all the elegant stateliness of the mingled Silvan and Sindar houses, robed in swanwing silver and cold fury.

He knew that Ereinion had gone courting to Elendil, laden with gifts and profitable arrangements. He understood the slight the Ñoldorin King offered him in making him journey all this way when it was Ereinion himself who desired the alliance—it made him look like a jilted lover, crawling back to beg for scraps. Ereinion, of course, was punishing him (and threatening to punish him further) for Oropher’s own inaction during the War of Elves and Sauron, as it was now being called. It was Doriath’s sin all over again, isolationism above alliance, and now, when there were no options left, Oropher would need to humble himself and ask for the aid he himself did not give.

Erestor thought he deserved the indignity. More than that, _Elrond_ thought he deserved it too. The day Oropher arrived Elrond wore an eight-pointed star on his brow and a thin, flat line for a welcome smile. There were those who didn’t consider Elrond to be of Fëanor’s line—Oropher included, Erestor deemed—but Elrond wasn’t about to let anyone forget the death of his kinsman at Sauron’s hand, and the devastation of Eregion besides. He had sent messenger after messenger to Oropher’s court while besieged in Imladris, to no avail. Most had died and those who had survived to return brought only refusal and silence with them. Oropher’s gaze flickered over Elrond, offering his greetings through clenched teeth. Elrond, in turn, gave him the most casual greeting he could get away with, and even Ereinion allowed himself a small smile at his Herald’s insolence. Erestor, personally, was having the time of his life. He wondered if he should be selling tickets to this audience, no doubt he’d make a killing.

The one shining brightness of Oropher’s visit and the only thing keeping everything from exploding into charred splinters was Oropher’s son, Thranduil. _Vigorous Spring_ indeed. Imperious and high-spirited, he had a quicker tongue than his father but a quicker laugh as well. Watching them together oddly reminded Erestor of Fëanor and his sons—they had the same strange mixture of doting adoration and uninhibited indulgence, unthinking loyalty and profound affection. Oropher lavished attention on his only son, forever reaching out to brush a hand down the long blonde run of his hair or to smudge a thumb along the ridge of his high, freckled cheekbone. Thranduil was hardly seen more than a few feet from his father’s side, and it seemed to Erestor that his footsteps warmed his father’s cold path with a hidden sort of sweetness. Erestor, for his part, liked Thranduil immensely, and it only took one hunting trip before Elrond did too. His sharp tongue, unburdened from the true weight of ruling, held a mischievous edge, and once Elrond figured out that his needling was a kind of play then they took to each other easy as two fox cubs. Oropher softened after that, as both he and Ereinion took their cues from Elrond and Thranduil’s burgeoning friendship. If Ereinion was willing to accept Thranduil through Elrond, then Oropher was willing to treat. A tenuous peace was established, one Erestor thought would hold long enough to get what they needed to do done.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He glanced at the high table over his wineglass. Around him the banquet swung into full springtime gaiety, the two Courts gossiping and wooing and mixing in a whirl of courtly intrigue. Banners, mingled with Ñoldo, Silvan, and Sindarin colors, hung from the ceiling over the rainbow crowd, lilting song and heady smells rising to the vaulted ceiling. This was the first of what would be many state banquets and as such was the most chaotic—no one knew where they stood in the new social hierarchy, or where their dining companions stood either. Half the room was having a very hard time deciding whether to be honored or insulted while the other half lost themselves in the spectacle.

Erestor himself had been relegated to one of the lower tables, a tactical and temporary demotion. Oropher wasn’t the fondest of any remaining Fëanoryn, much less Maglor’s own seneschal, so Elrond had set Erestor to behind-the-scenes litigation work. That suited him fine, but now he sorely wished he had access to _that_ table.

Ereinion, Oropher, Elrond, Thranduil, and a few of Ereinion’s older-lived and higher-born courtiers sat around a circular table on a dais, the rest of the banquet hall arrayed around them like petals—not the smartest of design choices, not even for Oropher’s floral tastes. Erestor could tell that Ereinion, his back to half the room, felt cornered and exposed all at once, stiff and scraped raw after days of difficult negotiation. He sat with his spine straight and still, his movements slow as he reached for a wineglass or lifted a fork. Elrond, whether he had noticed the reason for Ereinion’s agitation or not, was certainly picking up on it, echoing Ereinion’s stiffness with an increased restlessness. His hands darted and his legs crossed and uncrossed as he leaned over to speak with Thranduil over Ereinion and Oropher’s conversation. Erestor wanted to march over there, hold his hand down to the table, and remind him to _chew your food or you’ll choke._ By the gods, he was going to be a mess tonight—Erestor would have to find him something strong to put him to sleep.

Overhead, boughs of cherry blossoms arched from the ceiling, flower petals drifting down in a slow rain. Erestor plucked an errant bloom out of his wineglass and wiped his fingers on his napkin, trying to keep his perusal of the high table to a series of illicit glances. Damn Oropher and his ancient prejudices, Erestor wanted to be _there._

Oropher twirled the stem of his wineglass in his fingers, occasionally reaching over to absently tuck a stray lock of hair behind his son’s ear. He spoke in low tones with Ereinion, most likely about some trivial trade deal or another. One didn’t make a habit of speaking of important things in a banquet hall, not when any clever observer could glance over and read secrets on one’s lips. Still, his posture was a little _too_ casual. Erestor wasn’t as familiar with Oropher as he was with Ereinion, but thousands of years with among the Ñoldor didn’t leave him without instincts for these things. Not that it took much to deduce the source of Oropher’s unease— the flushed tips of his ears burned bright as a beacon. Erestor didn’t think Oropher had noticed Ereinion’s discomfort (few could), but how could he, when he was as deep into his third glass of wine as he was? By the gods, it wasn’t even the third course yet. Erestor sighed and tried to keep from rolling his eyes. It was one thing to be having a deeply unpleasant time in your host’s house, it was quite another to make a tit of yourself about it.

At this point the high table was about as stable as a hive of wasps. The only question now was who was going to throw the first rock.

It was just past the fourth course and Erestor had just finished planning an escape route when he glanced up to see Ereinion’s face drain pale. At his side Elrond went completely still, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Oropher, oblivious, continued speaking, his hand spread out in the universal gesture of assumed rapport. Erestor caught the words _over with_ and _thankfully_ and _untrustworthy_ in the shape of his lips. Erestor muffled his groan in his wineglass. That was a little sooner than expected, but no matter—he stood, made his apologies to his dining companions, and slipped away to make a surreptitious circuit to the dais through the back hallways.

When he arrived at Elrond’s shoulder Elrond’s fork had lowered to his plate, but he had not moved otherwise. Ereinion was deep in a state of affected coolness—the paleness was still in his face but he nodded at Oropher, gesturing for him to continue. Erestor didn’t bother to listen to Oropher’s words, instead leaning down to block Elrond’s line of sight. “My Lord, you are required immediately,” he murmured, loud enough that Ereinion and Oropher could hear.

Elrond blinked once, twice. “Yes, at once,” he replied. Erestor stepped back to let him stand, and he bowed to Ereinion and Oropher. “My apologies, your Majesties, I am required elsewhere.” Then he turned away with Erestor and let himself be led outside the banquet hall.

Once out the door, Erestor took him by the arm and tugged him to a secluded, curtained alcove. “Here,” he said, shutting the curtain closed behind him. “We’ll wait here for a few minutes and then we’ll go get the King.”

Elrond slumped against the wall, rubbing his thumbs up under his circlet. “Erestor, you are a miracle worker,” he moaned. “By the gods, just when I was beginning to think we could make something viable out of this.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and huffed.

“Hope is not yet lost,” Erestor replied glancing outside the alcove. Clear, for now. “Tell me what happened and I’ll draft a new trade agreement tonight to turn Oropher’s head aright.”

Elrond put his hand on Erestor’s shoulder and pointed a finger at his nose. “Erestor, I’m gonna to do three things.” His voice, slurring from its court-induced constraints, slipped into his Fëanoryn accent. “I’m gonna go get the King, then I’m gonna tell you what happened, and then I’m gonna make y’all get married so I am never without your trade-drafting abilities ever again. _Thank you._ ”

Erestor rolled his eyes but secretly he was very worried. Elrond’s accent only came out when he was _very_ stressed or angry. Oropher must have gotten to him more than Erestor had initially surmised. “We will do no such thing, but if you are that desperate to have me we can have a formal fealty ceremony when all this is over. Here, we’ve waited long enough, you can go fetch him now. I’ll meet you two in our quarters with whatever food I can snatch from the kitchens.”

Elrond kissed his cheek. “ _Miracle worker_. Will do,” he said, and slipped into the hall.

When Erestor made it back to their quarters he arrived with a basket filled with meat and cheese wrapped in checkered cloth, bread and fruit carefully balanced on top. A wine bottle gurgled next to a jar of honey, and tucked away in the bottom of the basket a still-warm apple pie sent its sweet smell up through the cloth, trailing behind him through the hallway.

“Here we are.” He opened the door and stepped inside their sitting room, basket displayed in his arms like he was presenting a newborn prince to the Kingdom. “Dinner is served, my Lord, your Majesty.”

Elrond shot up from his chair, eyes completely circular with hunger. “Thank the _gods.”_ He snatched the basket from Erestor’s arms, his fingers running lustfully over the wine bottle.

Ereinion, splayed out on the couch with an arm over his eyes and his crown dangling from his fingers, gave a half-hearted wave. “Elrond tells me you are going to draft a new trade agreement for Oropher—tell me, what are you going to do?”

Erestor sat on the last free corner of the couch, nudging Ereinion’s leg to make space. “Well, I think you should tell me what he said to make you two so upset, and then I’ll adjust accordingly.”

Elrond, half-muffled with a bread roll in his mouth, said, “He said he was damned glad no Dwarves would be joining us in our alliance.”

Erestor blinked and cocked his head. “Why would he think that having Durin’s army at our backs would be anything less than an incredible advantage?”

Ereinion ran his hands over his face. “Because he’s still sore about Thingol. Never mind that it’s been _thousands of years_ and in that time we’ve had incredibly good relations with Durin’s folk—who, by the way, bear no relation to the Dwarves of Nogrod, not that it would matter if they did. The fact remains that in Oropher’s obsession to recreate a Doriath-like splendor and safety, he has not progressed past the year _500 of the First Age_. He’s a damned shut-in.”

Erestor pursed his lips. “Not quite. He did, after all, decline to sail, choosing instead to defend his people here. Say what you might, he would not force his own to a land they had never known in the name of safety—Middle Earth is his home too, O Ñoldo.”

Ereinion rolled his eyes at him, huffing a sigh. “ _Fine._ Perhaps I’m being uncharitable. Indulge me.”

“Perhaps later,” he replied archly, drawing an undignified snort from Elrond. “But tell me first, who designed the seating arrangement for tonight? You should dismiss them at once.”

“Already done,” Ereinion replied, looping his crown through his fingers. “Someone pregnant had an early birth, apprentices were given authority they should not have had, bad luck all around. Too late anyway. Tell me your drafting plans, and quickly—Durin’s delegation is to come through here a week after Oropher leaves and I need them both if we’re going to win this damned war.” His voice held an exasperated, yet relieved snappishness, the kind he exhibited when he expected something good and knew he was going to get it. Erestor smirked to himself. _Bossy_ was the term he was looking for.

He leaned over the arm of the couch and tapped his cheek thoughtfully. Oropher was a prickly sort, but not nearly as snarly to deal with as some he had known. He was a King of simple wants—safety and, preferably, privacy. Neither were available at the moment, and in the face of Sauron’s monstrousness his attention had turned to something he could control: relations with the Dwarves. Erestor knew he had made a habit of relocating his people rather than face conflicts, even imagined ones. Not a few of those moves had been made to distance himself from Dwarven—and, by extension, Ñoldo—influences. “Perhaps a re-drafting of policy would be less appropriate than a re-drafting of practice,” he said, and slipped a hand down over Ereinion’s ankle. Ereinion watched him with lowered eyes, glittering in anticipation. “Our trade and messenger routes pass through Durin’s territory already, we often do business with him on our way to Emyn Duir. Perhaps an arrangement could be made with Durin’s folk to decrease the amount of Elven protection for trade convoys in exchange for contracted Dwarven protection. The Elves of Emyn Duir will have to open interactions with Dwarves if they’re the ones guarding our convoys, pre-emptively introducing them _before_ they’re thrust together on the battlefield. Thus we demonstrate our trust in Dwarven strength to both Oropher and Durin at once, while also strengthening our Dwarven ties commercially. Durin is honored and Oropher is humbled just enough to sting but not enough to make him angry.”

“Perfect. Done.” Ereinion clapped his hands once. “Elrond, drop this pertinent information in conversation with Thranduil tomorrow and we’re golden. Erestor, wait a week before drafting the proposal. I want this to remain rumor awhile while the Court re-settles itself around this new information. Now,” he reached over to the basket. “I am going to eat that _entire_ pie.”

He didn’t eat the _entire_ pie, but he came close. Either way, by the time he and Elrond had to leave— _Oropher will, actually, expect us back at_ some _point—_ the pie was gone and so were the nervous ticks in their demeanors. Ereinion even leaned over and kissed his cheek as they left, still dusted with crumbs. Erestor couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed, not even when he realized they had left him with a mound of dirty dishes. He made his slow way through the room and gathered the cups and plates into the basket, smiling in a soft, secret way to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can pry American-Southern Accent!Fëanorians from my cold, dead hands.


	11. Shadow

Oropher left with an official Alliance held together by a spiderweb-thin thread, and that thread was Elrond and Thranduil’s promise to write letters to each other and go hunting when either one of them visited. _By the gods,_ it was a close thing indeed.

Ereinion, after that last goodbye, came to bed haggard. Erestor stripped him of his robes and folded them, placing them on a side chair. Ereinion swayed, naked and stooped, in the middle of the room. His eyes, after holding sharpness like a naked blade, sank into an exhausted blankness.

He looked so _hollow_.

Erestor dunked him in the bath for a brief moment and, after toweling him dry, tucked them both in bed.

When they woke the next morning the hollowness remained. As the yellow glimmers of sunlight flickered through the leaves, his eyes sat far back in his face, two pewter beads. He lay on his stomach, his hands curled up under his chest, still but for the rise and fall of his breath. Erestor watched him for a little while, feeling cold and clammy in the dewy morning air.

Erestor knew that Ereinion had scheduled the day off so he didn’t bother trying to get him out of bed. Instead, he padded out of the garden and through the grounds to the huge wood fire ovens near the kitchens. The cooks and bakers were well on their way through the day’s bread, despite the dim early-morning light, and he begged breakfast easily enough. But when he returned with a basket full of light, airy rolls, butter, jam, and milk, Ereinion only barely stirred enough to eat before slumping back down.

“Ereinion.” Erestor set the basket aside and sat down next to him. “Will you tell me what ails you, my King?” he ran his hand along the bare length of his back, tracing the deep channel of his spine.

Ereinion looked up at him. “I am weary, Erestor,” he said, his voice barely more than a sigh. “Too weary to lie to myself about how well I think this war is going to go.”

Erestor nodded.

Then Ereinion took in a great breath, held it, and let it go. It didn’t change the dimness in his eyes, but he looked to Erestor all the same. “Come to bed,” he said. “I’d like your company for a little while, if I may have it.”

Erestor kissed his forehead. “Of course. But only if you take a bath with me first.”

Ereinion gave a little smile. “My ocean spirit,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My Sea Maia.” Then, with a colossal effort, he lifted himself out of bed and followed Erestor to the bath.

The water revived him a little but not much—in truth, only enough to let him slip into a dreamless, not restless, sleep when they returned to bed. Erestor lay by him awhile, drifting through the few books within arm’s reach and twining his fingers through Ereinion’s wet hair. The water darkened the color some, burnishing it a low, washed-out bronze. It felt good under his fingers, cool and strangely rough, thick strands catching against his opal ring.

When he was sure Ereinion was asleep, he scrawled a note on a scrap of paper telling him where he was going and slipped out through the garden door. There was a thin path worn from the door to his window by now, the grasses and rushes pressed down by his constant footsteps. Perhaps he should change his route—any discerning eye would be able to discover his path—but letting the grasses come up and erase his steps made him melancholy, somehow.

Elrond was awake but still in his sleep clothes when Erestor arrived back, lounging in his sitting room with his gurgling samovar and a well-worn book.

“Hello there,” he looked up as Erestor entered. “You’re looking remarkably put-together.”

Erestor narrowed his eyes at him, stooping down to pour himself a cup of tea. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Elrond shrugged, noncommittal. “Only to say that it’s yet early in the day and you look as pristine as ever,”

Erestor sat down at the opposite end of the couch. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Noon the day after Oropher and his retinue have left,” Elrond took a sip of his tea and set aside his book. “I don’t plan on making myself presentable at all today.”

Erestor grimaced. “You know, I would berate you for that save that I don’t think Ereinion will be leaving his rooms either.” He held the teacup between his hands, fingertips hot.

“Companionship has dulled your bite, O Councilor. I wonder how you live with yourself these days.” Elrond leaned back against the arm of the chair, smirking.

Erestor narrowed his eyes. His words may be true, but even so—“Watch your tongue, little one. I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet.” He reached over and pinched the underside of Elrond’s knee.

Elrond jerked back with a yelp and tucked his legs under him, scowling. “Apparently so,” He grumbled, licking his fingers where hot tea had spilled on them. “In all seriousness, how is he? I saw him for a few moments before he went off to bed—I think this visit might’ve weighed heavier on him than I initially supposed.”

Erestor blew on his tea. Even now, here with Elrond, he felt a flicker of guilt and worry at leaving his lover alone. “He is much wearied. I don’t think he’ll get out of bed, not today, perhaps not tomorrow. He…” He paused, chewing his lip in a frown. “He despairs of the war going well. All his fire has left him, and he needs rest to bank it again.”

Elrond let out a breath through his nose, brow tight with worry. “Much heavier, then, though these moments of despondency are not uncommon for one such as he.” He tapped his teacup with one finger. “I’m glad he has you.”

Erestor watched the steam curl up from his cup. “Me too,” He replied, the breath from his voice causing the steam to puff away.

Elrond regarded him for a moment. “And how are you liking being the King’s consort? If I may ask, of course.”

Erestor snorted. “Nosy, aren’t we.”

Elrond threw up his hands. “Alright, O Recalcitrant One, I shall ask no questions regarding the lives of my friends ever again.”

Erestor sipped his tea. “Dramatic too, it would seem. Peace,” his lips curled at Elrond’s wet-cat look of indignation. “I will give you an answer. I like it very well.”

Elrond chuckled. “Well, I should hope so. Are you fond of him?” He watched Erestor with sly, mirthful eyes.

“Am I fond of him, he asks.” Erestor huffed out a little laugh and let the smile grow on his face. “I am very fond of him, but not in the way you’re insinuating. We’re not _in love_ or any such thing.” He paused, lips still on the rim of his cup. His tongue sparked with _I am very fond of him_ and then—some strange after-echo, something that sounded like _I am astonished to know one such as him_ or _I sleep better at his side_ or _he makes me feel safe, or, rather, he makes me feel I deserve to feel safe—do you know what a wonder that is to feel such a thing, after Alqualondë?_ A cluster of tinkling bird-song notes surrounding his words. “He’s certainly better company than _you_ are,” He patted Elrond’s knee, only for Elrond to wiggle his cold toes under Erestor’s thigh for warmth and revenge.

“Hmph,” He huffed. “I suppose I shall have to ask him myself, since you seem on punishing me for my impudence.”

“Oh, hush you,” Erestor laughed. “I can see your good heart, though you disguise your concern very well in impishness. Very well. I am happy with him, and I like to think he is happy with me. We…” He paused again, searching for the right words. “We take care of each other. And it feels good, to have some softness and gentleness after so long without.” With a strange jolt, a memory flashed across his mind—Ereinion thrusting hard into his mouth, one hand fisted brutally tight in his hair while the other hooked a thumb over his teeth, fingers gripping the underside of his jaw and pushing up against the bulge of his cock in Erestor’s throat. Softness and gentleness indeed! And yet, it was true. Even that was a form of tenderness, of softness, even without the way Ereinion scooped him up afterwards, holding him close, kissing and licking at his bruised lips. And could one speak of their lovemaking without everything in between? What of the quiet moments spent wandering through the garden, the woods outside, saying nothing but what their clasped hands could say for them? What of all their unimportant conversations, murmured in the starlight hours, laughter dancing as purposeless as the wind? What of the opal ring on his finger? Such boundless… Comfort. Safety. Pleasure. _Delight._

Elrond watched him with a curious sensitivity in his eyes. “Once more I find myself eternally grateful for you, old friend, and this time not for my sake and my father’s.” He took a sip of his tea, eyes drifting far away. “The last war was very hard for him to carry, with little rest and less respite. Lindir, plucky little thing though he is, goes very quiet and sad when he speaks of watching the King weep in those days, and he is the only one who will speak of it to me in the first place. Others, I think, do not dare, though out of respect or fear of what those memories mean I do not know. There was a little while, you see, when he thought Imladris might be lost and I with it, and I think that pains him, even now.”

Erestor sat very still as Elrond spoke. He thought of the hollowness in Ereinion’s eyes, the way he asked _I’d like your company for awhile, if I may have it._

Elrond looked away to the window for a moment, and ran a tired hand through his hair. “Though, the way Lindir tells it, more terrifying and heartbreaking were the days he didn’t speak, sometimes not for weeks, as he awaited the next long scroll written with the names of the slain. He had no one to comfort him then, not when he had sent his best and most beloved to do the things he needed trustworthy people to do—only to then find many of them fallen in the effort.” Elrond’s face cracked with old grief, old worry. “When I finally returned he didn’t let me out of his sight for _months,_ and in all that time I don’t think a night passed in which he did not weep. After those months I slept in his rooms for another year or so just to give him comfort. As this war approaches I have been worried for him, but now I see how you are a balm to him and I am relieved.”

His words were a weight on Erestor’s heart, something like the weight on his thumb when he paused to consider his ring, what it meant. “I cannot say I am glad to hear your words, praise though they may be. I would rather he didn’t need me.”

Elrond shrugged. “I am grateful for you nonetheless, for you have given him something I couldn’t. Besides, I think he would be happy with you even if he didn’t need you.”

They sat in silence at that, their tea cooling in their cups.

“What do you think of this war, Erestor?” Elrond’s voice cut the quiet.

Erestor pursed his mouth. “How do you mean?”

“Well, you are one of our most trusted advisors, yet I rarely hear you speak of your own personal thoughts on this war. Do you have any?” Elrond’s voice was strangely nonchalant. Hmm.

Erestor pressed his lips to the hot rim of his teacup, thinking. “I don’t think you’re going to like my answer, my Lord,” he replied, giving Elrond a soft, wry smile. “My spirit is much darker than yours.”

Elrond reached over his knees to put a hand on Erestor’s arm. “Even so.”

“As you wish.” Erestor ran the tips of his fingers over the back of Elrond’s hand, soothing.

But how to say it? That he had long traded hope for a low, snarling sort of desire? He _wanted_ yes, but hoped? No. Not since he put to the sword his friends at Alqualondë. He could _want_ things, want to see Elrond safe and happy, want to share his bed with Ereinion, want to live past the hateful things he had done, but _hope—_ hope for victory, hope for peace, hope for a world renewed—things like hope were not for people like him.

Erestor balanced his teacup on his knee, a circle of heat. “Years unnumbered have I lived on this earth, and in all that time the only thing I have come to believe about the world is that it is slowly, inexorably, dying. Sometimes it does so in great shouts—Gondolin falling away with a cry into the flames—and sometimes in tiny whispers—a bereaved friend slowly passing away in grief into the still of the night. But it never _stops_. You and I have seen miracles burst like fireworks in the firmament and yet, the world fades.”

Elrond watched him with his mouth in a straight line, rings growing deeper beneath his eyes. “Is that what you believe? Truly?”

Elrond’s face made him want to take it back, but Elrond knew him well enough by now to know when he was lying.

Erestor had seen the ground break and swallow both the living and the dead. He had watched, already dull with sorrow, as the great maw of an entire continent choked on the multitude of carcasses and crumbled away into the sea. Eönwë, rainbow-spirit that he was, had ultimately meant nothing to Beleriand. The land had been sick with blood for centuries and when that brave, beautiful, flame-haired son surrendered himself to death it was as if Beleriand finally did too. Maybe such a fate awaited the rest of Middle Earth.

Oh, Erestor had done his fair share in the work of it, to be sure—Alqualondë, Doriath, the Havens, not to mention the thousands of orcs and goblins and other fiends he had hewn down. He dealt death as easily as sarcasm, at least—

At least until he met two small elf children, little twins alone in the world.

He reached out to Elrond’s face. “I think I do see things that way, yes. But I do not begrudge you your hope and light, little kestrel. I think perhaps it is my lot to be forever dark— I have lived a shorter time learning to be kind than I did learning to be cruel. But perhaps I can make your light brighter for it. I will not say I despair of the world, only that I am selfish, and care only for a very little portion of it. Perhaps we will lose this war, as we have lost others. Perhaps we will not—our good King has rallied more to his side than we ever had in Beleriand, even without the host of fallen Númenor. If we win then I shall rejoice with you, and if we lose then my devotion to you and yours shall not waver, and we shall fight on another day. But as to my opinion on the whole matter, I do not think of hope for myself, only of the things I must do so that _you_ may hope.”

Elrond leaned into Erestor’s palm and nodded. “I think I understand you,” he said, but it was a sort of concession, not an affirmation.

Erestor let his hand fall. Outside he could hear the distorted sound of bustling activity, the lowing of cows mixed up with the calls of sentries and guards. His thoughts turned to his King, to the rooms nestled away from all noise save that which came from birds, insects, running water. He suddenly had an intense, visceral desire to return, to press his ear to Ereinion’s sleeping back, to listen to the slow whoosh of his breathing.

“Did you mourn, after everything?” Elrond’s voice drew him back to the present.

“I did.” Erestor lifted his teacup from his knee, sipped the cooling liquid. “But not, perhaps, how you are thinking. We had been in mourning since Finwë was slain—by the time Beleriand fell we only had so much left in us to feel that loss. I was sad, yes, but I did not weep. My Lord needed me, and there was no time for tears.”

“Ai, Erestor, you’re a cold bastard sometimes,” Elrond finally smiled and Erestor was glad for it, even if the smile was something closer to a sorry smirk than a grin.

Erestor shrugged. “As I said, I am selfish. I put all my care in a few things, and none of it in others. I care for _you,_ if that makes you feel better.”

“Perhaps,” Elrond replied. “And perhaps I am being a little harsh with you. Maybe you did not weep when Beleriand fell, but you and Maglor were the only ones to understand what I felt when Elros died.”

Erestor felt an old pain prick his heart. He rubbed at his chest, suddenly heavy. “Yes,” he said, after a moment. “Yes, I think I did.” He set his tea aside. “I think, perhaps, I should return to Ereinion for the day. Is there anything you need of me before I go?”

Elrond smiled, and tried desperately to prevent it from becoming a giggle before failing and hiding his mouth behind his hand. “No, I think not. The Household will spend much of these next few days recovering, I think, and you need not worry. Give him my regards, will you?”

Erestor stood, ignoring, for now, Elrond’s continued insolence. “I will,” he replied, and made his exit.

 ~*~

Night fell.

It was one of those strange nights, cool and dark and filled with some unnamable, fragile thing.

Ereinion was laying out on his stomach beside him, his ass and thighs an angry red from their earlier play. Erestor lay on his side, his head pillowed on one hand while the other trailed through Ereinion’s hair. He was singing, something low and melancholy in a language Erestor didn’t know, and his eyes were closed. Erestor listened, a strange twist forming in his heart, until Ereinion’s voice finally trailed away.

“What were you singing about?” Erestor murmured, curling closer to loop his leg around Ereinion’s calf.

Ereinion cracked his eyes open and paused for a long moment. “It’s a love song,” he replied. “My sister wrote it for Túrin.”

Erestor kissed his shoulder. “What does it say? I don’t know the language.”

He shrugged. “It’s a conlang, one my uncle made with his Dwarven friends. It’s not spoken anymore, not unless some Dwarves remember it still. My sister and I used to speak it because no one else knew how, not even our father. As for the song,” his gaze went distant and still. “I’m sure you’ve heard their unhappy tale.”

Erestor nodded, hand soft in Ereinion’s hair.

Ereinion looked away. “She wanted to marry him. I thought he was too—how to say it?—full of shadow. For her, anyway.” His grey eyes dulled. “You know she had another name?”

Erestor shook his head. “I did not.” He could tell Ereinion was talking around what he wanted to say—circling it like a hawk.

“Faelivrin. _Sunlight glinting on the waters of Ivrin_. Fit her better.” He leaned his chin on his arms and went silent.

Perhaps he wouldn’t speak this night. Erestor kissed his shoulder again and pulled him closer. Ereinion went into his arms easy, pressing his face to Erestor’s chest.

“Do you think you might like to fuck me again?” He murmured, nuzzling down to suck on Erestor’s nipple.

Ah. He wanted to forget whatever it was that troubled him, at least for tonight. Erestor carded his hands through Ereinion’s hair, too familiar with that battlefield need—fucking for the sake of exorcism, for banishing the ghosts.

And, well, Erestor had his own ghosts. “Hmm… Well, when you put it like _that…_ ” he said, capitulating. His cock, limp against his thigh, stirred in interest.

Ereinion smiled, a little of that dullness receding from his eyes, and arched his back. “What way would you like to have me?” He purred, stretching the long, luxurious length of himself out for Erestor’s perusal.

“All ways,” Erestor replied, and if that came out a little more frail than he intended Ereinion gave no sign that he had noticed. Instead, he curled over and wrapped his legs around Erestor’s waist, adjusting until Erestor lay flush atop him. Ereinion slung his arms around Erestor’s neck, pliant and easy, his mouth curling in a satisfied smile as Erestor pressed inside.

Later, when Erestor had Ereinion too well-fucked to think straight, Erestor pressed kisses to his forehead, to the paper-thin lids of his eyes. He traced little whirling sigils in the tender skin on the inside of his arms, the hollow of his neck. Then, when he was certain that Ereinion had slipped into a dreamless sleep, Erestor settled down against his breast and let the fragile feeling inside him slowly siphon out of his bones.


	12. Cleave

And the seasons slipped into one another.

And Erestor found that when he slept next to Ereinion his dreams came as slow, cool rivers, peaceful as a dove’s call.

And then, all at once, war was upon them.

 ~*~

A messenger from Elendil, haggard and drenched with sweat, stumbled in the middle of Ereinion’s court, pushed courtiers out of the way with bloodied hands and gasped that Minas Ithil had been taken before collapsing. Ereinion stood from his throne, ice in his eyes, and knelt beside the panting messenger. Then, lifting the exhausted young man in his arms, he rose and gave the order.

The court erupted in a frenzy before condensing down into a pulsing singularity, a single thought pointed southward with terrifying intensity. Banners unfurled from pikes and spears, horses stamped and whinnied with shrill voices and elven eyes grew hard and cold. It was a little strange to watch these pre-echoes of war, the pageantry of battle before the reality. It reminded Erestor of those early days in Aman, watching the seven brothers parade their latest weapons before their father—Mithlond was full with sharpened swords but not with running blood, glimmering shields but not broken bones. Everywhere he looked Erestor saw with a strange double-vision—here, a young guard resplendent in Ereinion’s stars but maybe later crushed and dying on the ground, or there, a healer in her white smock but maybe later soaked up to her elbows in blood.

That evening Elrond gathered his own to return to Imladris for preparations. “My Lords,” he began, seated at the head of the table. The assembled nobles, who had been murmuring and snarling among themselves like a pack of wolves, quieted.

Erestor, seated at his right hand, watched as Elrond surveyed them with keen eyes. “My Lord the King has given his orders, and we will follow them. We will meet with Elendil in Imladris and continue the work our smiths have already started. Our Kin will join us soon, and then on our journey southward we will join with King Oropher of the Woodland Realm, King Amdír of Lórinand, and King Durin of Khazad-Dûm. If you have unfinished affairs, conclude them. If you have family you must leave behind, enjoy their company for one final night. Beyond that, I trust you are already prepared. We leave tomorrow.” Then he stood and left the room.

Erestor followed in his wake like a shadow. “I didn’t know Amdír would be joining us,” He said once they were out of hearing range.

“I myself only heard about it last night. Oropher brought him around,” Elrond replied, his quick steps taking him back to his apartments.

Erestor blinked. “Did he?” How curious.

Elrond glanced over his shoulder with a pointed look. “I’m unsure about Oropher’s motivations. With Amdír more loyal to him than to Ereinion, there’s a chance they may try to leverage their combined power against Ereinion and Elendil.” He turned into his apartments and threw himself onto his desk, hastily scribbling down a few last notes. “In the meantime his son will be in charge of Lórinand, along with Galadriel and Celeborn.”

Erestor shut the door behind them. “Will Thranduil stay in the Greenwood?”

“Heavens, no.” Elrond’s furrowed face loosened in a slight grin. “He’ll be at his father’s side, something I imagine Oropher will feel a little smug about.”

“Do you disapprove, then, of Amroth’s stay in Lórinand?” Erestor turned to the window, watching those in the courtyard mill around like ants in a kicked anthill.

Elrond’s quill paused in its scritching. “Hmm. I don’t think so, actually. With Galadriel and Celeborn there they should be able to shore up their defenses enough to hold out, should things go badly. Amroth is mostly unknown to me, but that’s neither here nor there when one such as Galadriel decides she’s going to do something _her_ way. And I suspect this whole arrangement is, in fact, her way. Amdír might have needed Oropher to convince him to join with us, but she’s wanted Lórinand’s alliance with us all along.”

A horn blew somewhere over the walls, high and clear in the blue sky. Erestor clasped his hands behind his back, absently running his fingers over his ring. “Do you need me for anything further, my Lord?” he asked.

“No,” The skritching continued. “I think I have everything well in hand, though I’ll need you early tomorrow. Why do you ask? Is there something you need?”

Erestor turned to him, feeling strangely empty—like a wafer-thin shell, tossed in the surf. “I’d like to spend the night with him,” he said. “That is, if you don’t need me.”

Elrond looked up. “Of course,” he replied, and there was a painful sort of softness in his gaze. “Of course, spend as much time with him as you can. We’ll see him soon, of course, after this, but no, I don’t need you. You can stay the night.”

Erestor bowed. “Thank you, my Lord.”

When he lifted his head Elrond had stood and come to join him at the window, his hand reaching like a bird’s wing around his shoulder. “Come now,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “What’s this formality about? You know you don’t need to ask my permission to see him, nor do you need to bow. Does something trouble you?”

Erestor huffed, a faint smile on his lips. “Does something trouble me, he asks.” Outside the call of the horn rose in pitch, horses whinnying in response. “We are on the eve of war once more, little kestrel. I only wish to make sure you do not require my service before seeking out some small measure of quietness.”

Elrond cocked his head, but let his further questions drop. “Go to him, then.” His hand rose to cup Erestor’s cheek, protective. Ai, this double-vision— Erestor, Elrond’s mentor and protector, now become some fragile thing under his kestrel’s wing.

Elrond smiled at him. “And give him my thanks for taking such good care of my family.”

Erestor managed to give a smile back. “Ai, Elrond, you are too gentle for this world. I will do as you ask.”

“Good.” Elrond released him and returned to his desk, waving him away. “Now, go enjoy yourself, while you can.”

Erestor slipped away to his rooms. His pack lay on his bed, ready for the morrow. He had only packed a few light things, a change of clothes, a few books, some soap. He had to pack light—he and Elrond would travel ahead of the main contingent to prepare their arrival in Imladris, where he already had quarters saved for him from the times he and Maglor visited. Armor and weaponry would be packed together or forged anew in Imladris, and there was no need for him to attend to his battle-wear himself. He circled the room, changing out of his court-robes, and tried not to stare at the pack— a coiled snake on the bedspread.

He left it on the bed and climbed out the window.

 ~*~

Ereinion’s rooms were as they always had been, decadent and mussed and smelling of green pond water and feathers. Erestor stood in the middle of them, his hair wet from his bath and his feet bare against the thick rugs. The crickets, wakened once more in the new spring air, rose in song in the thick purple mist of twilight. Nighthawks dipped and spun over the ponds, flitting under the eaves of the porch. The rooms, unlit by even a candle, grew dim and melancholy.

It might be a very long time before Erestor returned here, and that thought suffused through the rooms like a low, rolling fog. He sat on the bed and fiddled with his hair, feeling half out of his skin. He wanted Ereinion’s hands on him, wanted his touch to bring him back to himself. But instead of solid hands he had only the rasp of the knit bedspread, the shuffle of his thin shift. He glanced down at himself, watching the faded paleness of his skin move under the shift—almost like looking at himself through a cloudbank. He’d worn this thing because it… looked good? Because he wanted to wear something that Ereinion would like, because he wanted Ereinion to set him alight with those mithril-bright eyes. It was thin but not sheer, and white stitched in gold, and he felt very foolish, somehow. By the gods, they were going to _war_ tomorrow, and here he was thinking about frivolities like _clothing._ He snarled at himself, at his foolish vanity, oh—and the night was yet young, and Ereinion wouldn’t be here until late, and he would have to sit in this silly thing for—

The door to the chambers opened and closed and Ereinion strode into the room and, without pausing for breath, grasped Erestor’s face in his hands and kissed him.

 _Oh, please—_ Erestor arched up and yanked Ereinion down over him, the weight of that warmth pushing his soul and body back together. _Yes, yes, Ereinion—_

“By the gods, Erestor, you shining wonder—” Ereinion mumbled nonsense to the crook of his neck, pulling the collar of his shift down over his shoulder to nip at his skin. “You lovely thing, you—”

Erestor jerked at his heavy royal robes. “You _fool,_ get this _off—_ ”

Ereinion pulled back to yank at his collar, his gaze raking up Erestor’s body like a tongue of flame. “I feel you should know,” he shoved his sleeves down his arms, away. “That the sight of you in my bed is as a spring after oceans of saltwater— Erestor, I have been _desperate_ for you.”

And things turned out alright, after all.

Erestor helped Ereinion out of those useless robes and shook his hair out of his long high-tail, tossing the crown off somewhere they couldn’t see it. Ereinion twisted Erestor’s shift in his hands and leaned down to nuzzle at his ribs through the thin fabric. “How you undo me,” he whispered, oddly reverent.

Erestor chuckled and cupped his face in his hands. “Come here then.”

And he spread his legs and let Ereinion in, and as Ereinion drew him up in his arms Erestor tucked his face close to the pounding pulse in his neck. _Oh,_ this—Ereinion’s breath hot on his shoulder, his cock moving slow and sure inside him, his silver eyes full of starlight— this could carry him through the war ahead. This could carry him over oceans and mountains and rivers of fire, could sustain him as sure as water, as sunlight. Erestor tangled his hands in Ereinion’s hair as it spilled over his arms and hooked his calves along his flanks, looping and curling and threading himself around Ereinion as if he could tie him here, bind him. Ereinion’s breath, already ragged in his throat, ghosted over Erestor’s lips as he smeared desperate kisses along his mouth, his brow. They rocked together, slow and steady in a strange, careful sort of way, Ereinion taking the time to grind deep and purposeful inside him while keeping Erestor’s cock trapped, aching and untouched, between them.

They weren’t more than a few minutes in and already Erestor’s skin sparked with overstimulation, the slick of Ereinion’s sweat and the odd prick of his hair along his cock striking a brushfire in the bowl of his hips. Erestor could feel his cock leaking precome, dripping down along his side and seeping in his rucked-up shift, the steady roll of Ereinion’s hips milking him surely as a fist. Ereinion had his forehead pressed to Erestor’s brow now, his hands knotted in his hair and his eyes shut, face tight. Erestor was shaking, why was he _shaking?_

“Ereinion, _please—_ I can’t—” Erestor gasped, back arching.

“Come for me, Erestor,” Ereinion growled and _bit_ down on Erestor’s lip and _oh—_

He came a half-step before Ereinion, cock spilling between them as Ereinion thrust into him once, twice more before releasing with a low, wounded moan. Then, all their strength sapped, they fell together and wrapped each other up in their arms. They lay there, panting, still joined, and Erestor lifted Ereinion’s face in his hands and kissed him until they could barely breathe.

Finally Ereinion sighed and pulled out of him, shifting down until he could fold his hands on Erestor’s belly and lay his head upon them. “Would that I could simply toss Sauron into the sea,” he murmured, watching Erestor through long, pale lashes. “And leave him to the mercy of the gods. He should be theirs to contend with, let them leave us in peace—I have better things to do with my time than corral their rebellious spirits for them.” He pushed Erestor’s shift up out of the way and pressed a kiss above his bellybutton.

Erestor smiled, still catching his breath. “I do hope these “better things” include fucking me senseless.”

Ereinion nipped the ridge of his ribs. “Naturally. Top of my list,” he joked, but when his chuckle faded it did so into a grim, somber silence. He rolled off Erestor’s chest and stared at the ceiling, a hand resting on his heart.

Erestor curled close. “Come now, my King,” he murmured, and tipped Ereinion’s jaw back for a kiss. “There is sadness in your eyes.”

And there was—a profound sadness filled his eyes to the brim, as deep as the eerie hollowness had been empty.

And this time Erestor couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear leaving Ereinion alone with his heaviness. They had no time left for unsaid things. “Will you tell me your sorrow? Will you let me comfort you?” he murmured and kissed him again, brief and light.

Ereinion blinked, as if coming out of a reverie, and turned to him. “’Tis nothing, save the heaviness of war.” He ran his fingers along Erestor’s arm, but did not move closer. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

 _That_ was a lie, and an insult too if Ereinion thought he wouldn’t catch it.

“Ereinion,” he growled low, and shifted down to cleave close to his side.

Ereinion laughed a little, but the sadness mingled with the laughter. “Peace, Erestor. Peace.” He let Erestor inside the circle of his arms, let him twine their legs together. But then he looked away, to the garden filled with moonlight, and sighed.

And maybe, if Erestor had been a better person, he would have let Ereinion keep his privacy. Maybe, in another lifetime in which he was not who he was, he would have held his tongue as his King desired. But he was selfish, and still had a capacity for callousness. He watched the slowing rise and fall of Ereinion’s breathing, watched the blush fade from his pointed ears, and he felt the swell of Ereinion’s unknown thoughts rise up under him and he _wanted._ He coveted Ereinion’s thoughts for his own, on this night of all nights.

He rubbed the ring on his finger. “My King,” he murmured, and nuzzled the thin skin over Ereinion’s collarbone. Then he said the only thing that would _make_ Ereinion speak to him. “I would ask a boon of thee.”

Ereinion turned back to him, questions in the tilt of his head. “So soon? But yes, of course, anything.” He tucked a lock of hair behind Erestor’s ear. “Anything you ask.”

“Tell me your thoughts, my King,” He replied, and leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of Ereinion’s mouth.

Ereinion froze, pinned as if by a lance, then melted in one great slump. “Oh, Erestor,” He said, and laughed softly to himself, the sound of it filling the room like the flutter of moth’s wings. Then he curled his hands in close to his chest, a small, sad gesture. “I was just thinking,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “How strange it is to have found the One in Whom my Soul Delights just on the eve of war.”

And the world sort of… cracked, after that.

 _Oh._ Erestor lay, quiet and still. _Oh. Oh, by all the gods, oh no._

Ereinion must have taken his silence as something other than what it was because he lay back and stared at the ceiling, a little self-deprecating twist in his mouth. “I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. You can leave, if you like—nothing will change outside here. Besides,”—and this, for some reason, brought a smile to his face, a sickly sort of thing—“I doubt I’ll be around much longer to be sad about it anyway.”

Erestor sat straight up and looked down at Ereinion. Ereinion carefully pulled all his limbs away until they weren’t touching anymore, saying nothing. “Wait—” Erestor furrowed his brow, wait, something wasn’t right, nothing was—“What do you mean?”

Ereinion’s eyes were leaving now, going somewhere else. “I… have developed certain affections towards you. You can leave me if you’re—”

“No,” Erestor snapped. “No, not that, what do you mean about not being around much longer?”

And then, and _then—_

The spear—Ereinion standing in the garden going through his paces, the long lightning-arc of aeglos’ blade—

Erestor’s hands lifted, trembling, to his mouth. “You—” You didn’t fight _orcs_ with a spear, no, you went hunting for something much _bigger—_

And the future laid itself out in a huge tapestry before him, immense and ineffable and _inevitable,_ thousands possibilities branching away and Ereinion’s steps turning to set themselves on one single path.

Erestor always had an eye for war, even in Aman, before anyone knew the definition of it. He saw the gleam in Fëanor’s eyes even before his sword struck the first shocked Teleri and _knew_ what it meant, his own sword half unsheathed before Fëanor’s blade rose. He could hear the sound of flint before it struck, could smell burning ships before the first match caught, could feel the butter-smooth slide of his blade through flesh before the order was given. He always had the ability to _see,_ to _understand—_ possessing the same strange knowledge that drove crows to the field before the battle even began, that told an archer _this one_ and not _that one,_ that struck the hearts of parents when a child fell in battle hundreds of miles away. In short, he was _good_ at his _job,_ in the business of discernment, in picking through the strands of possible futures to puck out _certainty_. Part instinct, part practice, his skills had not failed him yet—

He turned and met Ereinion’s terrible silver eyes. “You’re going to _die_.”

Ereinion shrugged. The sound his shoulders made against the shifting coverlet shook Erestor to the core. “Most likely. It’s about time, really.”

“You’ve—” and his words were cracking now, rising—“You’ve _always_ known you’re going to die. You— you’re going to hunt down Sauron _yourself,_ and you don’t fight with a sword because you need aeglos to _reach_ —”

“It wasn’t Sauron,” He said. His voice was feather soft, steady. “Not at first.”

 _Glaurung._ “You chose a spear because you wanted to hunt _dragons._ ” Erestor felt a snarl rising in his throat. “You’ve planned on _killing yourself_ since the _first age,_ you—”

Ereinion’s eyebrows rose. “I rather planned on _something else_ killing me, thank you very much. It’s practically a Ñoldorin King’s tradition at this point.”

“Shut up _,_ you _idiot,”_ Erestor snapped. His fingers balled into fists. “ _Shut up._ How dare you, _how dare you—”_

Ereinion sat up next to him and put a hand on his thigh. Erestor flinched. “Erestor,” he said. His voice was uncannily calm but at least now his eyes were back, weren’t receding into darkness. “Unless there’s something I don’t know about—and I very much doubt that—you and I both know that it will take every ounce of our strength to defeat Sauron. That means, at some time, I will have to face him myself. There is no one else who can do what I can do.” He made it sound so easy. Simple. _Clean._

Erestor was shaking now, with rage and shock and— “And what, you thought you could just saunter into battle and _die_ without so much as—as—”

“Hush,” Ereinion’s thumb rubbed soothing circles over his thigh. “It’s not so bad as all that. I like to think it won’t be in vain, and if it all goes well then Elrond and Círdan will carry on taking care of Lindon, and you will be free to find someone else, if you like.”

Erestor stared at him. _Oh._ The truth hung over him— a cloud of smoke, a hawk’s wing, a blade. It descended. “You didn’t think I would love you back.”

Ereinion blinked. “Of course not.”

Erestor felt his throat close, felt his heart clench so hard he couldn’t breathe. “Well.” He managed, and his fingers wrenched so tight in his shift he could feel it tearing. “You were wrong.”

And that was how he said it. _You were wrong,_ meaning, _I love you, my darling, my One, how dare you._

And Ereinion looked at him with something approaching horror and said, “Oh, Erestor,” and his hand fluttered on Erestor’s thigh. “I am so _sorry_ , I—”

And, because there was nothing else to do, Erestor kissed him. He crawled into Ereinion’s lap and seized at his hair and bit his lips until he tasted blood, and Ereinion moaned like a broken animal and tore the shift open along his shoulder and dug bruises into the meat of his thighs, his back.

It felt like the world was ending all over again, only this time for good.

Ereinion pressed him down into the bed and took him again, yanking his hips back and driving into him with a ruthless, single-minded fury. He wrung what he wanted, what he _needed_ out of Erestor’s body, and Erestor gave back what he took in equal measure—clawing at Ereinion’s shoulders, sinking his teeth in the tender skin under his ear—their aching bodies chasing down pain more than pleasure. Erestor whimpered, voice high in his throat, needing to feel that closeness, that feel of shifting skin, rushing blood, living bodies. Yet an opposite light loomed under the horizon, the reality—and it was reality, as deep a truth as the world could hold—that this would _not always be so,_ that one day Erestor would reach out and touch something still, cold, not the hot, sweating, _moving_ body above him— _oh gods it was all_ _true, how could he not have known, Ereinion was going to die, those beloved silver eyes would recede into a darkness from which they could not return_ — and what was he going to do, when the shimmering light in those eyes couldn’t sustain him anymore? How would he live? How—

When he cried out in Ereinion’s arms it was a wailing, broken thing. Erestor felt tears streaming down his face and he choked, “ _Ereinion—”_

Ereinion slowed, murmuring into the crook of his neck whatever sweetness he could find, “No, hush _,_ don’t cry, _Beloved—”_

Erestor couldn’t bear it, couldn’t hold those words and he yanked Ereinion on with a fistful of hair, snarling “ _Harder,_ you fool—”

By the time Ereinion drove into him hard enough to rattle his teeth he was sobbing, ankles locked tight in the small of Ereinion’s back, heaving in huge lungfulls of the tang of Ereinion’s skin. He broke fast, folding over himself with a low groan, his peak more painful than soothing. But after he came Ereinion kept thrusting into him and that felt good, _so_ good, up to the point Ereinion came and ground to a halt. He slumped with a sigh, the full weight of him holding Erestor down, and the pleasure of it faded to a dull throb.

Tears wouldn’t stop rolling down his face. Erestor wiped at them with the back of his hand, Ereinion’s long hair catching and sticking to his skin. Ereinion hid his face in the crook of Erestor’s neck, his breath stuttering in uneven gulps.

“Don’t do this to me,” Erestor jerked Ereinion’s hair back, made him meet his eyes, made it _hurt._ “Don’t—Ereinion, _please._ ”

Ereinion leaned up on his elbows, his hair falling in sheets around them. Erestor watched his face, watched as the huge, immoveable wall of his will _slipped._ “If we survive this,” he whispered, eyes gone soft and scared. “I’m going to _marry_ you.”

_Oh, by all the gods—_

“Don’t _say that—_ ” and Erestor began crying in earnest, curling tight into himself and shaking. All the sheets clung to him, sweat and come and tears catching up in the fabric, in his hair, cloying close as he wept.

_Ereinion. Please, no._

Ereinion lay atop him, panting, kissing his brow in apology.

And if tears spilled from Ereinion’s eyes to drip down into the hollow of Erestor’s collarbones then there was no one to witness it, no one but Erestor—and he was not about to share such secret things.

Finally Ereinion lifted himself up and drew Erestor to him, a low _Hush, darling, I have you,_ on his lips. He caressed his hand down the length of Erestor’s hair and waited until his tears slowed.

Erestor clenched his fists against his chest in weak refusal, miserable. “I _hate_ you,” he snarled through the thick, viscous lump in his throat.

“Please don’t say that,” Ereinion—oh, he _whimpered,_ and Erestor dissolved into a thousand pieces.

“ _No_ , I’m sorry, I take it back, I don’t hate you—” Erestor crawled closer, his fists unclenching to grasp him close. “I’m a fool, I’m sorry—” He wrapped all his limbs around him, spanning his hands across his shoulders and crossing ankles in the small of his back. Erestor wanted to tear his own throat out, wanted to erase forever the wretched sound Ereinion had made when he said _please._

“Hush, Beloved.” Ereinion leaned back to meet Erestor’s eyes, the silver of them so full with weariness and sorrow. “Here, come with me,” he said softly. “I feel too enclosed here, too hemmed in with grief.”

Then he climbed off the bed, bearing Erestor up with him. Erestor wrapped his arms and legs around the long golden length of him and allowed himself to be carried out into the garden, into the well of green and growing things. Ereinion’s feet padded soft on the grass, crushing sweetness underneath.

Erestor lay his head down on his shoulder and huffed a tiny half-laugh, or perhaps quarter-laugh, in spite of everything. He needed to be out of the bed, out from under the overhanging roof, out where the stars could see them. Ereinion understood these things, understood how to take care of him, even now. “You’re too good for me,” Erestor murmured, and kissed his neck.

Ereinion carefully stepped into one of the still pools filled with lily pads and sat down. This one was clear and deep, with a submerged bench running around the rim, and the copper tang rising off the water tasted sharp and ancient. The water was still warm from the sun but with the heat of their bodies it felt cool, like spring rain. Ereinion slumped down with Erestor still wound around him, breathing with a slow, careful deliberateness. Erestor settled down into his lap and ran his mouth along the ridge of his shoulder, lapping down into the dip of his collarbone, and let the two of them cool down in the water.

Everything about them felt drained, sapped dry.

Ereinion silently lifted his hips and brought Erestor down on his cock. There was just enough slick left to make the way soft and gentle and Erestor released a soft sigh. They rocked together, making little ripples that jumped up at the lip of the pool. Erestor didn’t really think he had anything left in him to come and apparently Ereinion didn’t either, so they simply held each other close and swayed.

They didn’t talk about what Ereinion had said, had promised. _I’m going to marry you,_ oh, if only. It was impossible— Erestor had lived too long and through too much to think there was any hope for them, any at all— but even though it was hopeless the thought of it was a sweet, tender gift. Absently, Erestor wondered what sorts of flowers he would have worn in his hair, what gifts he would have given his beloved. He sniffed and pressed his eyes to Ereinion’s shoulder, hot and grainy. Ai, he seemed full of useless thoughts today.

The moon rose overhead, painting glimmering flashes on the surface of the pool. Erestor sank his hips down, taking Ereinion further in. Ereinion had his hands loose about him now, trailing up his back and flanks in a meditative slowness, only every now and again descending to his ass to urge him onward. The water sang with little splashes, gurgling in time with their movement, and around them the primordial nighttime sounds murmured in the dark.

“I have to ride to Imladris tomorrow,” Erestor ground his hips down in a pointed reminder.

Ereinion gave him a wearied smile. “If you’re looking for an apology for the way I’ve used you tonight you’ll not have one,” he replied, and dipped down to press a lingering kiss to the skin above Erestor’s heart. He paused, thoughtful, his pale lashes still wet with water, or tears, or both.

He wasn’t going to ask.

He wasn’t going to say, _Tell me you love me. Say it out loud._

But Erestor could feel the need for it radiating off him in waves. Erestor was beginning to realize that there were so many things Ereinion needed, _desperately_ needed _,_ things that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—ask to have. But he kissed the skin above Erestor’s heart again, and again, almost as if he couldn’t help it. Erestor wondered how he lived like this, in a state of constant need without any release.

He should have said it earlier, should have given him _everything_. “I love you, Ereinion,” Erestor whispered, said it to the night air, and Ereinion’s shoulder’s slumped in relief. “I love you _so much._ ” Ai, it hurt to say, hurt to break himself open.

“It would be easier if you didn’t,” Ereinion replied, leaning back against the lip of the pool.

“I won’t have your pity,” Erestor replied, voice dropping to a growl.

Ereinion snorted, actually laughed. “Who said anything about you? I meant _me._ ” He lifted his hand to cup Erestor’s cheek. “How am I ever going to leave when one such as you bids me stay?” his thumb brushed up under Erestor’s eye, skin tacky.

Erestor didn’t answer. Instead he leaned down and nipped at Ereinion’s ear. In truth, he didn’t know if he wanted to hear anything further—Ereinion would most likely say something self-sacrificing and foolish, something that would make Erestor weep for days to come. Ai, but that was going to happen anyway, wasn’t it? Erestor, for his part, felt… betrayed, somehow, by his own heart more than anything else. But when he looked to himself in reprimand he felt himself soften, and he turned to his heart with forgiveness, understanding, gratitude, and, yes, pity.

“I love you, Erestor.” Ereinion’s voice sounded so soft Erestor almost missed it under the steady hum of night sounds and yes, he could feel the tears rising hot and swift to his eyes. That was the first time for him too, wasn’t it?

“Do you now.” Erestor arched back and looped his arms around Ereinion’s neck, his voice wavering with affected lightness. “Why ever would you do that?”

He meant it flippantly, and he knew Ereinion knew that, but still, Ereinion’s eyes went hazy with emotion. “How could I not?” he said, circling his own arms around Erestor’s back.

“You know there are very many people who might answer “very easily,” my King.” Erestor felt unmoored, untethered—his old tongue skipping over sarcastic habits while his heart cried _Oh—!_ within him. Why must he tease now, when all he wanted was to whisper his every secret into the thin skin under the curve of Ereinion’s ear? Who had he become, or, who was he becoming, that he could hold all this longing?

Ereinion leaned up and kissed him in lieu of an answer. The water around them pulled at their skin, sending shivers up their spines.

Erestor sighed into the kiss, opening his mouth to let Ereinion in. “Ai, Ereinion,” he murmured, “How did we come to this?” He meant, _How in all my long years did one such as you come to love one such as me?_ or _How are we going to survive?_ or _Will you tell me everything will be alright?_ or _I’m afraid—_ but Ereinion answered the question he wanted to ask and would not because he was too proud, which was, of course, _Why?_

“How could we not come to this,” Ereinion chuckled, running his hands under the water, cupping them full, and bringing them up to spill coolness down Erestor’s heated neck. “When one such as you offered himself up to me? What King, what _god_ could stand up against the loveliness of you? By the gods, the light I see in your eyes, flashing up from the well of your soul…” His voice grew softer as he spoke, frailer—as if there were yet many more things he would say, save words would not do them justice.

“I have known a few gods in my time, Ereinion.” Erestor couldn’t help but roll his eyes, even with the tight thrumming in his chest. “They stood against me easily enough.”

“Hush.” Ereinion’s teeth ghosted over Erestor’s breast. “You prickly thing, I never should have let you in my bed.” A tease for a tease, but it struck hot in Erestor’s throat.

“Don’t say that.” He relented and curled over Ereinion’s shoulder, his hands clenching and unclenching in that mass of hair. “I wouldn’t give you up for anything on this earth—not for a thousand Simarils and all the starry hosts.”

Ereinion huffed, nosing Erestor’s shoulder in an apologetic way. “Would that I could give a crown in exchange for you,” he said. “If I could but unlock its circle from my brow.”

Erestor took his face in his hands and kissed him. “You need give nothing in exchange for me. You may have me of my own free gift.”

And somehow that was enough, for now.

They went back to bed and lay down together, exhausted. Erestor had a pounding headache behind his eyes and everything in him felt overturned and broken, a trampled basket of eggs. Some weak thing inside him still fought, still begged _no, please, I’ll do anything, just let him live,_ but it was losing. Erestor felt as if fate, or destiny, or whatever it was that was going to kill Ereinion loomed over him like some huge hand pressing down on his throat, his chest, laughing at him.

There were no more words left to say. Ereinion, after awhile, hummed something slow and melancholy and caressed Erestor’s bare back. His voice grew tighter and tighter until, with a shudder, it too cracked and Ereinion began to tremble. The moon dipped out of view, and Erestor, tucked in the lee of Ereinion’s chest, wept once more.


	13. Interlude: Imladris

Erestor stumbled back to Elrond’s rooms about an hour before dawn. He would have left earlier—there was yet much to be done— but as he was slipping away Ereinion drew him back and held him and kissed him and, well. There were more important things than being on time.

When Erestor came to him Elrond was already at his desk packing the last of his things, fluttering around like a sparrow organizing crumbs.

“Thank goodness you’re here, I know it was your last night and all, but—” he looked up, saw Erestor leaning heavily against the doorframe. He stilled, blinked, reached to him. “By the gods, Erestor, are you alright?”

So it was visible, then—the depth of his heartache.

He gave a halfhearted smile, or tried to, anyway. “He’s not going to survive this war, is he.” _Please, tell me I’m wrong. I’ll believe anything you say._

Elrond’s hand lowered in one slow fall to the desk. “Is that the conclusion he’s come to, then?”

Erestor closed his eyes and rested his head against the doorframe. How did he still have tears left in him? They rolled down his face and down into the collar of his robe in long, tacky trails, and he did not have the strength to wipe them away.

He felt Elrond wrap him up with a crushing hug, his arms enfolding him with warmth. Erestor lifted his arms and encircled Elrond’s back, clutching weakly at his long robes.

“I love him,” he whispered. “I _love_ him and by all the gods, _he_ loves _me_ too.”

Elrond pulled back, framed Erestor’s face in his fine-boned hands. “Truly?” he asked, anguished.

Erestor nodded. “Truly, little kestrel.” He gave a wet, hiccupping chuckle. “I might have shouted at him, a little.”

“Oh _no,_ ” Elrond kissed his brow, thumbed away the tears. “Oh Erestor— I’m so _sorry_.”

“Don’t be,” he found himself replying. “Your dreary old storm-crow has found love at last, and in a King at that.” And there—wasn’t that a strange surprise? The magpie feeling roosting in his chest found its voice at last, _mine mine mine—! All mine!_ He would have Ereinion’s love, at least for this little while, and that little bird crowed in triumph. If he were a better person he might feel a flicker of guilt over the sentiment, but he clutched at this small consolation—not that he wouldn’t give up Ereinion’s love for him in exchange for his life in a heartbeat.

“I’m going to kill him,” Elrond snarled, then blinked. “Sorry, bad choice of words. But I—I don’t know what I’ll do, but— I’m going to _kill_ him for breaking your heart.”

“Ai, Elrond,” and this time Erestor managed a real smile. “You are sweetness itself.”

Elrond kissed him again, hand pressed against the back of his head to draw him close. “Do you need rest? I can take care of things until we leave, if you like.”

Erestor shook his head. “No.” He wiped his eyes, took a breath. “If I stop to rest I’ll only go back to his room, and then I’ll never leave.”

Elrond smiled, soft and apologetic. “Too true. Oh Erestor, I don’t know whether to congratulate or console you— in any other life, at any other moment I would sing for joy for you. Ai, but here, now,” he sighed. “This I will say, that you could have found no better than him, though I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for it. Will you forgive me if I shout at him a little too?”

Erestor huffed. The part of him subsumed in desolate sorrow cracked open one eye, drawn—as he ever was—by Elrond’s light. “You and I know you’ll do no such thing, gentle one.”

“I’ll _try,_ if you like.” Elrond pulled back to take both Erestor’s hands in his own.

“I’ll think about it,” Erestor replied. Where did Elrond get his tenderness? Certainly not from Erestor’s tutelage.

Outside the window the sun’s light glittered early-morning golden, heralding their departure. They’d leave soon—leaving Ereinion to follow behind in a week’s time. Nearly three weeks without him, all accounted for— such a sundering already. This would be the first cut, the first sliver carved— three weeks without him. Erestor’s hand lifted from Elrond’s grasp to his heart, feeling as tight as if he were bound with iron wire.

They left within the hour, slipping out through the winding streets of the city with a small contingent of guards. Erestor rode with a sword slung over his shoulders, thumping against his back in time with the cantering hooves beneath him. The sun rose high overhead, and even though Erestor ached at leaving Mithlond he wished the sun would slow, would halt the passage of its days.

Anything. He’d give anything for more time.

~*~

They arrived in Imladris in about a week and a half, weaving up through the rolling hills and green dells of Lindon and Arnor.

Erestor spent most of it secluded in his own thoughts, further cementing his reputation as the grim shadow cast by Elrond’s light. Occasionally he overheard whispers wondering at what dark and strange things he must think to set his face in such a frown, but the true answer wasn’t so complicated.

He was tired and lonely and sad. There. Not so complicated after all.

Elrond let him be for the most part and tended to the rest of the company, and Erestor was grateful for the chance to sit in long, uninterrupted periods of quietness and let his emotions spool out in the vast, open landscape.

A few of Elendil’s court met with them along the way, early messengers and members of his household sent to prepare the King’s way to Imladris or Rivendell, as they called it.

“Why do you call it Rivendell, and not Imladris?” Erestor heard Elrond ask a silver-cloaked soldier as they made their way down into a green-lit glade. “I understand it’s a fairly straightforward translation, but was there a reason, or…?”

The guard laughed. “You elves—pardon me, you people with elven blood—take such delight in your language, may we not play our little linguistic games as well? Besides, I believe the translation is partially for your sake, my Lord. _The Lord of Rivendell_ rhymes better in our songs than does _The Lord of Imladris._ ”

That brought a pleased little blush to Elrond’s cheeks and Erestor felt his mouth lift a little. Small mercies.

Imladris was much as Erestor had left it all those many years ago, that is to say, appearing as a breath of spring bloom after a long winter full of slick ice. No matter from where Erestor came—weariness or health or both— Imladris always had the same effect. The Bruinen roared through the valley and yet there was an air of sweet silence that hung over the Last Homely House, snuggled away amongst the cliffs and golden birches. Sparrows—Elrond’s secret favorite—flitted and chatted and argued with one another over crumbs and leaf-wisps. The air smelled of some strange mix of flowers and baking things and smoke, whirling up in a smell that reminded him of salted honey. Erestor had not known a home since he sailed from Aman all those many thousands of years ago, and yet Imladris seemed to glance over its shoulder, inviting. _You could live here, little one. You could stay._ So far he had not given an answer, despite his permanent quarters tucked on the eastern side of the libraries. He had not been called “little one,” in many thousands of years either, and yet, here he was.

For a brief moment he wanted to say _yes_ to Imladris, if only so that when Ereinion arrived he might invite him into his own home and encircle him there.

Elrond, looking like a chickadee just flown to his nest—all proud feathers and smug, settled smiles—led the procession across the Bruinen and into Imladris. There he swung from his horse and, beaming, gave welcome to his guests with all the warmth his rich, soft, voice could offer. But it was a brief welcome only, and as soon as his few sentences were spoken he took Erestor by the elbow and dragged him away.

Elrond’s rooms were near the heart of Imladris, close to the main bridge crossing the Bruinen and the Hall of Fire, where already song lifted into the mist-thick air. Here Elrond’s Mannish blood exerted itself in full force—he wanted to be in and among that rush of a collective crowd, inside that strange beating heart that formed whenever two or more were gathered.

Maglor’s quarters were here too, near Elrond’s rooms but set further away in among the trees. Elrond had them built even before his own rooms were completed, full to bursting with airy ceilings and soft rugs and gauzy, glittering blue curtains. A private hall, rather than a public one, connected the two. The secret to its construction, of course, was that sound, particularly music, carried magnificently well between the two quarters.

Erestor, as he and Elrond slipped into his rooms, noticed Elrond looking in a wistful sort of way toward the hall.

“You should give Maglor’s rooms to Celebrían,” Erestor said, setting his pack aside.

“Why do you say that?” Elrond tossed his pack on his still-messy bed, his rooms untouched since his last stay. His wistfulness replaced itself with a narrow-eyed curiosity.

Erestor shrugged off his pack and slumped down on a couch. “ _I_ know that those rooms are the finest in Imladris, and don’t think I haven’t forgotten you gave them to _him_ and not _me—”_ this earned him a snort—“but what better use for them now than for to woo? Besides, should she call for you in the night—”

And _that_ earned him a pillow tossed at his head, which he only barely managed to catch.

“You’re in fine spirits today, and so’s your tongue,” Elrond smiled, wry. “And you’re certainly managing to temper my gladness at your happy mood with your sharpness.”

Erestor gave a half-smile in return. “Not happy, I think. Not for now, anyway. But I am glad to be here, and in your company, and I live in anticipation of a bath.” Happiness wouldn’t return to him until Ereinion did, but in the meantime he could only hold agony in his hands for so long.

“Well then let’s get you that bath, and something to eat too, I think.” Elrond motioned him up from the couch. “And I’ll have you know that your rooms, while not as _lavish_ as his, are certainly better than mine so I’ll not hear a peep from you.”

The bath included an incredibly large jug of medium-quality wine—good enough to enjoy, but not good enough to feel bad about squandering on a night of drunkenness.

Which, of course, is what this was about.

He and Elrond sat in Elrond’s private bath, elbows slung back on the lip of the huge, circular tub, goblet in hand and jug tactically placed between them next to a platter with cold meat, sharp cheese, warm bread and early-summer fruit.

“Come now, Erestor,” Elrond sucked raspberry juice off his fingertips. “How is your soul this night?”

Erestor was _just_ drunk enough to answer truthfully, damn him. “In shreds,” he replied, waving his fingers in the air. “Like a tattered banner.”

Elrond remained silent, and Erestor wondered if he had only been pretending to drink as much as he—which would be devious and manipulative and something that Erestor himself had done multitudes of times before, so all around a bad sign.

Erestor very carefully and deliberately put his glass down on the stone edge of the pool. “What would you like me to say, Elrond? I love him and I wish to marry him and be bound to him forever?” He nearly laughed, self-derogatory, but he knew Elrond didn’t appreciate his scorn when directed at himself. By the gods, what was in this wine?

Elrond stayed silent, but his silence held questions. _Why? Why not, while you still have time?_

Erestor stayed quiet this time too. _Because if we are wed, if we are bound when he dies, I think it might kill me._

Erestor had known Ereinion for a scant few days in the great span of his life, loved him for even less, and yet—and yet.

It was a kind of legend among Men that if an elf died their spouse would fall with them, a legend not entirely rooted in falsehood. An elf _could_ die, or, more accurately, fade from grief or an excess of sorrow, especially (but not always) if their spouse had been killed. Erestor knew of a few who slipped off during the Great War, and perhaps a handful more during the War between Sauron and the Elves, but those who did had very often been wed for many hundreds of years—more often than not coming from a “childhood sweetheart” sort of love. Their sense of self, as Erestor understood it, twined so deeply with the selfhood of the other that to chop down one tree was to chop down both.

It was something in the marriage bond itself—not that there was anything mystical about marriage but that there was something in the certainty, the promise. _I will love you and none other for all the endless years of my life._ Not an expression of will, but of fact. The expression of that truth in a vow, and the reciprocal acceptance. Stronger than mithril, than the maw of the grave.

And could he bear to speak those marriage vows? Could Ereinion stand up under their weight?

“Perhaps I take my earlier words back,” Erestor said, taking a gulp of his wine. “Perhaps I am nothing more than an old fool, caught up in my own emotions. Would I feel this way if we were in peacetime?”

“Maybe not,” Elrond conceded. “But would you know Ereinion as the sort of person you could love if it were peacetime?”

That was something to think about. Erestor reached over to the bowl of fruit and plucked a peach from it, biting down quickly to avoid speaking further.

“What do you think you will do now?” Elrond asked, because he damn well couldn’t let well enough alone.

Erestor chewed slowly, juice dripping down his chin. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I don’t know that there’s anything else to be done, really. I’m not going to leave him, or you, if that’s what you were asking.”

“It wasn’t quite what I was asking, but I’m glad to hear your answer nonetheless.” Elrond took a real sip of his wine now that Erestor was watching. His fingers tapped, thoughtful, on the rim of the pool. “I suppose I meant more along the lines of _how_ you’re going to move forward now, how you’re going to carry all this.”

That was a strange question, and one he hadn’t been expecting. Erestor chuckled, and set aside the half-eaten peach next to his glass. “You’re asking if I’m going to be sad all the time.”

“No.” Elrond’s face was calm. “Though, if you do end up being sad all the time I won’t begrudge you. Finding a love after so long only to face its inevitable loss is no mean thing. Neither is living in anticipation, caught in the path of such certainty.” He said it so softly, his voice a thin, straight line stretching from one sentence to the next.

He wasn’t lying, exactly, but contentiousness and concern for others could hide a multitude of hurts.

Erestor frowned, lips curling in a snarl. “Tell me, little one, why do you speak thusly to me? Neat words are unlike you.” He slumped in the water, stretching his aching legs, and gave Elrond a sidelong glance. “I am not the only one who will lose him.”

It was a long time before Elrond spoke again. “You’re right, of course,” he replied, looking haggard and _old._ “I think I might’ve had a better idea about what he was planning and thought I could— or that I might give you something to, or—no, you’re right. You’re right.” He pressed his hands to his face, looking down with a blank stare at the water. “You’re right.”

Erestor sighed, a slight, wry smile rising to his mouth. “You have a very bad habit of hiding your wounds, Elrond, and you forget that I have known you long enough to recognize your tells. My grief does not lessen yours, little kestrel,” and he reached to tuck a strand of wet hair behind Elrond’s ear. “We can be very sad together.”

Elrond chuckled, wet. “We can. Is it strange that I’m a little jealous of you? Before you came along I was closest to him, and now I find my place usurped.”

That got a laugh out of him. “I can’t say I’m sorry, but if you think he loves you less because of my place in his heart then you’re mistaken.”

“No, it’s not that.” Elrond had a strange twist in his mouth now. “It’s mostly a matter of time, now, and that’s such a very Mannish thing that I had almost forgotten what it meant. In our immortality I think we forget what it means to be finite, to have a set amount of time to dole out to others. He will have to think _I will spend time with him and not another,_ and not, as we think, _I will spend time with him and then, later, another._ ”

Erestor let out a breath through his nose. “You’re right. For that, I’m sorry.”

Elrond set his face. “You shouldn’t be. You should enjoy him while you can.”

“ _Elrond._ ” Erestor rolled his eyes. “You _will not_ martyr yourself and your love of him for my sake.” He lifted his glass and drained it. “We already have one martyr among us, I’ll not tolerate another.”

Elrond looked sort of wretched at that, and Erestor could see the longing in his heart to stay close to his dearest friend struggling with his desire to give Erestor comfort and space in these last times.

Erestor tipped Elrond’s chin up with one finger. “You may ask for his attention whenever you please and he will give it—and when you are not asking for it enough I will send him to you. He is not mine only, that I should hoard him like gold. Neither should you deprive him of your company, in which he finds so much delight and comfort. You would wound him by your absence.”

“Alright,” Elrond relented, and the struggle drained from his body.

“Good,” Erestor replied, slipping slightly into his tutor’s cadence. “Then you’ll have dinner with us when he arrives.”

Elrond smiled out of the side of his mouth, and reached over to the jug of wine. “As you will. In the meantime, however, this is still half-full.”

When Elrond sent him to bed later that night he was _wretchedly_ drunk and it was, somehow, exactly what he needed. He woke the next morning with a sledgehammer headache, his eyes crusted over and his mouth dry as salt-cured driftwood. As upsettingly painful as it was, it helped his body and his soul—still scraped raw, still licking its wounds and whimpering— feel closer to each other. And what was there for a broken heart but to get absolutely sick, to teach the body all the lessons the heart was learning? Erestor spent most of the morning kneeling on the tiled floor of the bathroom, alternately pressing his flushed face to the cool tile and rising to retch in the toilet. Maybe he was wrong in the head to think this way, but somehow heartache felt better when everything else hurt too.

Elrond arrived sometime mid-morning to give him a pitcher of water with a fist of gingerroot floating inside, along with a plain loaf of bread. He _tsked_ a little, but did him the favor of tying back his hair and leaving him in peace.

“Today’s a day of rest for the company, so I won’t need you until tomorrow,” he said, before backing out of the washroom. “If you need me then you know where to find me.”

Erestor growled revenge plots and other nonsense back at him and Elrond, fighting a smile, closed the door.

When he managed to keep a few mouthfuls of bread down and clean himself up, he stood before his mirror.

There had been little time for mirrors before they left, so he must not have noticed it—the fading bruise arching over his collarbone. A bite-mark. It was nearly gone now, a halo of red and muted yellows. He brushed his fingers over it, then pressed down. When he lifted his fingers the red flushed angrier, some small patches of purple rising once more to the surface.

There. That was better.

Elrond arrived again in the evening to bring him supper, which consisted of more bread and a plain, thin broth tasting of green things. This time, however, Elrond stayed.

The two of them sat on the couch in Erestor’s sitting room, leaning against opposite armrests and reading. Their knees knocked together and slowly the candles dwindled into darkness. When Erestor lifted himself off the couch Elrond followed, and when Erestor stripped to his shift and climbed into bed Elrond did the same and joined him.

The blue moonlight from the window was barely enough to see by, Elrond’s face across from him hardly more than a pale blur.

And then they were very sad together, for a little while at least.

 

~*~

Elendil and Tar-Asmaa arrived a few days before Ereinion was slated to arrive, Elendil in high spirits and Tar-Asmaa trailing thunderstorms in her wake. Belatedly, Erestor realized that if Ereinion was planning on getting himself killed in this thrice-bedamned war, there was no way Elendil was going to let him do it alone.

He took the initiative and brought a jug of wine to Tar-Asmaa’s rooms as she was settling in.

She was setting out her maps and scrolls on her desk when he gently tapped on the door and requested to enter.

“You may,” she replied, sparing him a slight nod of respect before turning to peer at a new map. “Though you’ll forgive my casual state.”

He nodded in return. “No forgiveness needed, my Lady.” He took the jug over to a side table, set with a decanter and a few crystal glasses. Tar-Asmaa eyed the jug with narrow eyes, the sort of look that asks questions but knows the answer.

Erestor poured her a glass, then, after a thought, poured one for himself. “It has come to my attention, my Lady,” he said lightly, handing her the glass. “That our mutual Kings have decided without us to set themselves in the path of Sauron’s hammer.”

Her lip curled, half in pleased amusement and half in anger. “You have heard correctly,” she replied, and took the glass. “And will you have heard how the King’s Herald roared so loud at the news that the stones of Annúminas shook?”

“I did not, but then, Mithlond is very far away.” Erestor tilted his glass to her in salute, then took a sip.

She saluted back, then downed half her glass in one go. “Come now, my Lord, are you here to offer me some scheme to dissuade them? If so, let me save you the trouble. They are determined, and, looking at the current state of things, they will get their wish.” She had conceded, it seemed, to Elendil’s plan, but had dug her trenches deep nonetheless. She would not let him go without a fight.

“If I were I would be here to ask for your advice, since I have no solutions,” Erestor replied, wry. “Neither, it seems, do they, since they are so willing to shed their own blood, and I do not think they would do so unless there was dire need.”

She stared at him, flat. “If I remember correctly, my Lord, you are not in the habit of telling me things I already know.”

He dipped his head. “I am not. I simply come as my Lord Elrond came to me upon news of their fateful decision, that is, with the means to get absolutely shitfaced and cry about it.” He met her eyes, hesitant. “If you are half as loyal to your King as my Lord is to his, then you must be very sad indeed. I would not normally presume such a thing, nor offer my condolences to someone with whom I am not well acquainted, but—” he shrugged, and looked away, unused to offering sympathy.

“But you’re sleeping with him.” Tar-Asmaa finished.

He blinked. “Yes.”

She gave a slow, gleaming smile. “Well now, my King owes me a few handfuls of gold and a day off. Thank you, Erestor.” She clinked her glass against his. “Though, I’m sorry for your loss.”

He smirked despite himself. “I’m sorry for yours as well. Will you be needing this?” He gestured to the jug. “Marvelously helpful.”

She laughed. “Perhaps. Come, sit with me, I could use the company and your advice. We have a few things yet to do to make sure our Kings don’t throw themselves needlessly to their deaths, fools that they are. And, perhaps, we can _get shitfaced and cry about it,_ as you say.” She turned to a couch, glass in one hand and a handful of maps in another.

Elrond found them a few hours later pouring over the map, jug conveniently moved to the low sitting table for easy access.

“No, if we encamp _here,_ ” Erestor jabbed his finger at the map. “Then we’ll be vulnerable on our western flank.” He was kneeling on the rug next to the table, seeing as the couch was becoming a little too precarious to navigate in his current state.

“You _fool,_ we _are_ the western flank! _We_ are coming from the west!” Tar-Asmaa, splayed out over the couch, threw an arm over her eyes. “That’s the whole point!”

“You,” he pointed at her, “Aren’t _looking. Our_ western flank could be vulnerable if—”

Elrond chose that moment to make himself known with a light cough. “My Lady, my Lord,” he said, and Erestor and Tar-Asmaa jerked around to glare at him. Elrond was barely keeping a straight face, something Erestor would exact revenge for later, but in spite of that he delivered his message tolerably well. “His Majesty desires your attendance, my Lady.”

She snorted. “You can tell him _he_ can attend _me_ here, I’ll not move. He’s been enough trouble for me anyway.”

Elrond, damn him, bowed. “As you wish, my Lady.”

Elendil arrived in a slight huff, a very important scroll in one hand while the other rested lightly on his sword in a reflexive twitch. “My Lady, what—”

Tar-Asmaa waved him away. “I won our bet, you owe me a day off. Now, Erestor and I were having a lovely conversation, so unless you intend to be pleasant you can leave us to it.”

Erestor, who had been pressing his flushed forehead to the cool, smooth wood of the table, lifted his eyes to Elendil, who watched him with an exasperated glare. Behind his shoulder Elrond wore a mask of peaceful blankness, a picture of noninterventionist hospitality.

“Won our bet, did you?” Elendil’s gaze didn’t leave Erestor, who looked back as best he could while _slightly_ drunk.

Tar-Asmaa smirked. “Of course I did. Now are you going to be pleasant? If you are, you may join—Erestor here has some interesting ideas about our encampment plans.”

It was mostly business after that, which is to say, business as Erestor preferred it— with good company and perhaps a little too much wine. Elendil joined Tar-Asmaa on the couch and she, unwilling to give up her space, slung her legs over his lap. Elrond sat on a well-stuffed chair, and Erestor leaned back against the edge of it next to his knees. The four of them spread out their maps over the table, the couch, various laps, squabbling about where Oropher’s host would go and which stretch of river to ford, not really making any serious decisions but gesturing towards what might become a decision, might decide the fate of thousands. But mostly they just enjoyed themselves, laughing and teasing. Elendil, after a glass of wine or two, started calling Elrond “old man,” Tar-Asmaa made vague, not-quite cognizant double entendres about Erestor’s opinions on aeglos, and Elrond, feeling better about everything now that he’d had a good cry, gave back as good as he got with embarrassing stories of Elendil as a teenager.

And life continued on, and, for Erestor, that was enough for now. It wouldn’t be enough later, perhaps not enough even an hour from now.

But he had a glass of wine, and was in good company, and, for now, it was enough.

 ~*~ 

If Tar-Asmaa arrived in Imladris with thunderstorms in her wake then Ereinion arrived as a tempest, striking eyes and pent-up fury swirling midnight blue around him. Elendil and Tar-Asmaa, grown rather plush with Elrond’s hospitality, watched with long-suffering sighs as Ereinion rode into Imladris on his charger, ready to make war.

Erestor didn’t much care for the war talks, nor for the thousands of soldiers and horses pouring into the valley and surrounding mountains, nor could he spare much sympathy for Elrond, whose job (and, subsequently, his own) had just become immeasurably more difficult.

He cared about the elf on the horse not ten feet away from him, hair whipping out in the breeze, eyes flashing as bright as his mithril crown.

Ereinion was a _vision,_ glinting sun-gold and mithril-silver against midnight blue and Erestor wanted to throw himself at his feet, wanted to kiss the hem of his robe and _sing,_ sing has he hadn’t sung since leaving Aman. He only barely managed to keep a tight rein on himself, standing stock still but for the thunder of his heart, the tremor in his bones.

If there had been any doubt, any hint that it had all been some strange dream—their tenuous confessions, their love hidden in the dark of night— those thoughts blew away as mist in the sun. Erestor _burned_ for him.

Ereinion was looking down to Elrond, who stood with the horse’s reins in his hands, listening intently as Elrond gave him a brief overview of all that had passed in their absence. Behind him thousands of silent elves stood at attention, armor gleaming in the late afternoon glow. Seeing them all assembled gave Erestor a chill, as if he could feel the collected breath from their lungs washing over his spine in a cold wind. There were more he couldn’t see clustered in the surrounding mountains, merging with the already established Mannish encampments.

Ereinion hadn’t looked at him, not yet, but Erestor could feel his attention bent upon him nonetheless and it made him shiver.

“Blesséd be your arrival, my King,” Elrond was saying, “Whatever you may require, ask and it shall be given.”

“May your blessings be returned thousand-fold,” Ereinion returned the traditional greeting and slipped off his charger, placing his hand on the back of Elrond’s neck in warm, familiar affection.

Elrond smiled and leaned into it, relaxing a little now that Ereinion was here. Behind them the King’s entourage began dismounting and dispersing to their various duties.

“You’ve had a long journey, my King,” said Elrond. “May I offer you the hospitality of my House? My Lord Erestor will attend you.”

And then, _finally,_ Ereinion looked to him, the heat in his eyes only barely veiled. Erestor, fighting the flutter in his chest, stepped forward and bowed. “I will show your Majesty to your rooms, if you so desire.”

“I do find myself wearied from my journey, and from the absence of my loyal councilors,” Ereinion replied, keeping his voice light and casual. “And am desirous of a rest before we begin our work. Lead on, Councilor.”

Erestor bowed, and motioned for Ereinion to follow him. “This way, your Majesty.”

Erestor led him away into Imladris, ears pricked to the sound of boots following behind him, the swish of the King’s long cloak on the ground. Ereinion remained silent, respecting their established privacy, but as they rounded a corner into a secluded hallway his steps picked up their pace. By the time they made it behind the library to the door of Erestor’s rooms they were nearly running and Erestor barely had enough time to wrench open the door and slam it behind them before—

“ _Ereinion—”_ Erestor leapt into his arms and Ereinion caught him, oh, _oh—_

“My _darling_ , my _love_ —” Ereinion shoved him up against the door and buried his face in Erestor’s hair, strong hands hiking him up to wrap his legs around his waist. “These past few weeks have been _torture,_ oh, how I’ve _missed_ you, you lovely thing, you beloved creature, you—”

“Hush, I’m here, I’m here—” Erestor threw his arms around his neck and held tight, tight as he could. _Oh,_ the feel of his skin, the scent of his hair, the strength of his arms—Ereinion looked at him fully now, eyes brimming full with relief and joy and, yes, _love._ Erestor couldn’t help but beam at him, couldn’t stop even when it hurt to keep smiling.

Here, in the encircling shell of Erestor’s rooms, they could forget about everything outside for a little while and just _be._

Erestor took Ereinion in his own bed, heedless of the long miles Ereinion had ridden on horseback, and rolled into him with a slow, deep intensity. Ereinion writhed beneath him, his hair loose among the quilts and his hands fisted in the pillowcases, mouth open in a gasp.

“ _Harder,”_ Ereinion growled, his face and chest flushed bright pink. “I need to _feel_ you tomorrow, want— _ah—!”_

Erestor thrust into him with a snap of his hips and leaned down to lave at his breast with his tongue, teeth sharp on skin. “Mouthy today, aren’t we,” He murmured over the bruised skin. “Hush Beloved, I shall give you everything you desire and more.”

Ereinion snarled up at him and, with a twist, threw Erestor onto the bed under him. “You left me for _three weeks,_ ” he panted. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I’m a little _impatient._ ” Then he set himself over Erestor’s cock and began to _ride,_ thighs shaking with exhaustion.

Erestor moaned, hips jerking up. “By the gods, _Ereinion,_ you _fiend_ ,” his voice ran thick with want. “How I— _oh—!”_

They didn’t last long after that, not with Erestor’s cock caught in that plush, perfect heat and his hand pumping tight around Ereinion’s cock. Ereinion came with an indulgent, satisfied groan, spilling over Erestor’s chest, and Erestor followed a half-step behind him, fingers digging bruises into Ereinion’s tender skin. Ereinion slumped down over him, boneless, mouth smearing a kiss along his neck up to the tip of his ear. Erestor managed to shove him to the side before he went completely limp, wincing a little as his cock pulled out with a slick squelch.

Ereinion mustered enough energy to curl up to Erestor’s side and sling a heavy arm over his waist. “M’ssed you,” he slurred, and tucked his face under Erestor’s chin.

Erestor rolled his eyes and shoved him away. “Up, you fool. You might be careless of your own bedding but I’ll not have you ruin my sheets.”

Ereinion lifted his head and examined the bed with bleary eyes. “We’re in your room?”

“Of course,” Erestor heaved himself off the bed and padded to a side table, where a pitcher of water sat next to a bowl and a washcloth. “Where else would we be?” He poured a little water onto the cloth and began washing himself, grimacing at the chill.

Ereinion looked around the room with a little bit of soft wonder in his face, his eyes drifting over the mussed bed, papers stacked high on a desk pushed up beneath a window, simple tapestries filled with flowers hanging next to neat bookshelves, thick, colorful rugs running under worn couches and low tables laden with more books and old mugs. Erestor watched him, silent.

Then Ereinion’s face bloomed with such an aching delight that it almost hurt to look at him— _yes,_ Erestor wanted to say. _Yes, you are welcome in my rooms, as you are welcome in my heart. Yes, everything that is mine is yours._

He brought the wet cloth over to Ereinion and nudged him with it, sitting down on the bed beside him. “Elrond prepared your own rooms for you, of course. They’re down a small, private hall through that door.” He nodded towards a side door tucked away near his desk. “But he gave all the best rooms to Elendil and his court, and I must say your new rooms here are much less well apportioned than those at Mithlond.”

Ereinion reached up to him and caressed his cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “So I shall stay here then?”

Erestor nodded, allowing a small, mischievous smile to rise on his lips. “How could I serve my King any better than to give him the best that I have?”

Ereinion smirked, and took the rag to wipe himself down. “Well, you could always give him the best that you have _on your knees.”_

Erestor pinched his ass, earning him a yelp. “You press your luck, Majesty.”

Ereinion grinned up at him, cheeky. “Am I not a generous King? Shall I not repay my loyal subjects tenfold?”

“Am I not a wise councilor?” Erestor returned. “Should I not demand to see proof of payment before bargaining?”

Ereinion laughed, tossed the rag somewhere off the bed and rolled close. “I yield. Come,” He reached out and tugged Erestor down. “I am weary from my journey.”

“A short rest only. We are dining with Elrond tonight and I don’t want to be late,” Erestor replied, and tucked himself along the long length of Ereinion’s body. Then he fell quiet, fingers running thoughtfully over Ereinion’s chest, through the light blonde hairs there. “I do not know how much you had told him previously of your… predictions, for this war, but he was much saddened when I told him what you told me.”

Ereinion went very still, then sighed. “Perhaps I should have spoken more with him.”

Erestor tipped his head up and met those sad silver eyes. “You are his dearest friend, Ereinion. Nothing you could have said would make his grief any less. You must take care not to let him feel that you have abandoned him for my sake.”

“Of course,” Ereinion replied, brow furrowing as he looked away to the canopy above the bed. “Oh, Elrond, my heart’s brother,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “I’ll be sorry to leave.”

Erestor pressed his face into the crook of Ereinion’s neck. “ _You_ will not be _sorry_ , you fool. _You_ will be _dead._ ” His voice, muffled in Ereinion’s skin, felt rough in his ears.

Ereinion threaded his fingers in Erestor’s hair. “Will you ever forgive me?”

“No.” Erestor nipped at his shoulder, watching with sharp pleasure as a purple bruise rose to the surface.

“Ai, I suppose I deserve that,” He murmured, but spoke no more after.

They rested for a while, tangled up in each other in a mess of sheets and limbs and hair. Erestor put his ear to Ereinion’s chest and closed his eyes, listening to the _whoosh_ of his breathing. Slow, steady, like the ocean speaking through a shell. Warm too, like the heat of full sun in summer. Erestor ran his mouth over the curve of his breast, tasting the salt of his sweat and inhaling the bright smell of dust and sun, the long road’s journey caught in his hair. For a moment he let the war drift out of his mind, off somewhere else. For a moment there was just the smell of musty books and clean sheets, the shifting heat from their bodies, and, underneath it all, the sound of Ereinion’s breathing matching his own.


	14. Gasp

And yet.

And yet.

Erestor rose the next morning with Ereinion curled close enough to share his breaths.

And the morning after that he woke to Ereinion’s hands running down his belly, his throat, all over the soft, vulnerable places of his body.

And the morning after that they shouted and snarled and fought with Elrond and Elendil and Tar-Asmaa about tactics and weapons and war.

And the morning after that they started in on the wine far too early and were completely useless by mid-afternoon and had to go swimming in the Bruinen to clear their heads.

And the morning after that they spent the whole morning in the bath, Erestor seated firmly on Ereinion’s lap and the water half-splashed out by the time they were done.

And the morning after that Erestor whispered the most important words he would ever say over and over again into the hollow of Ereinion’s collarbones.

And the morning after that, and after that, and after that—

Until, one day, there were no more mornings left.


	15. Finished

The last time he saw Ereinion was the day the world ended.

The days ran differently here, inside the Mountains of Shadow. Morning didn’t rise with the sun but with the empty feeling of despair finally running dry, with the campfires burning down to cinder, with the healer’s wearied _She’s out of the woods, now._

Erestor lay on Ereinion’s bed, curled tight around his softly sleeping form. Outside the tent the camp growled with activity, soldiers and healers and horses churning around them in a low thunder. In the distance Erestor could hear the muffled keen of crumbling rock—Durin’s war-machines chewing through their work on Barad Dûr’s walls. The distant glow of campfires diffused through the tent, bathing their bodies in a faded orange, their shadows cast purple. Smoke and ash drifted down over the camp, seeping through the tent walls, into his hair, his skin.

Seven years had they spent in the circle of Mordor’s jaw. Seven long years to add to the thirteen since they left Imladris.

Twenty years and so much changed.

All their Courtly drama, the whispers and snide remarks and privacies—so far away now, useless as a dull blade.

Oropher was dead. Amdír too. Elendil’s second-born, Anárion, as well, alongside countless others.

Ai, the Great Host of the Alliance—once as innumerable as the stars, now counted in a few handfuls.

Erestor threaded a few strands of long blonde hair around the tips of his fingers. Lazily he wondered when they had last taken a bath—Ereinion’s hair was streaked with grey ash and the old rust of dried blood. Erestor’s own didn’t fair much better, the dark mass of it looking as grey as Tar-Asmaa’s locks.

A great shuddering blast sounded from somewhere in the distance, but Ereinion didn’t stir. Good. He deserved a brief respite. They were all so weary, so sick with blood.

At first Ereinion and the other commanders had held back, strategizing their way through Sauron’s wiles and navigating their hosts through mile after bloody mile of impossible terrain outside Mordor. Strangely enough, Erestor found himself feeling lighter once they were inside the Black Gates—Oropher and Amdír’s bodies would never be found in the great morass outside Dagorlad, and Erestor sometimes felt like their souls still wandered the marshes. It was better, here among the rock and sharp scree, than it was in the sucking, sick marshes of the dead.

Even so, barely a fourth of Amdír and Oropher’s combined hosts were yet living. Whenever Erestor was in a particularly dark mood he nursed the gleaming coal of hatred in his heart for the two of them, imagining what might’ve been had they but given up their haughtiness and stayed their hand, waited instead of rushing headlong into Sauron’s arms. Perhaps the war would be over and won by now. Perhaps he could have been home, in Imladris, everyone important to him hale and whole and laughing around a Yule log crackling in the fireplace. Stupid, useless thoughts, but they kept him warm.

They nearly didn’t have any of Amdír and Oropher’s troops left, even if this time it was for Thranduil’s sake. Ereinion, in a fit of foolish mercy, had ordered Thranduil home before the grief-stricken new King was forced to decide between defecting dishonorably or risking his remaining people in a war that chewed up lives like so many blades of grass. Thranduil, tears not yet dry on his face, had refused. Ereinion, a rare smile curving his mouth, had compromised and assigned the bulk of the Greenwood’s forces to the Healing Houses.

Even so they had done it, made it through the Black Gates and set siege to the dark tower itself.

And, at last, Elendil unsheathed his sword, Durin drew his axe, Ereinion took up aeglos, and they set to work.

Seven years. Seven years of waking to brutality after brutality. Seven years had Ereinion risen in the morning and left him to partake in the slaughter.

Elendil walked now as if he had a chunk ripped from his side, and had patched that gaping hole with a deathly cold anger. Tar-Asmaa, now crippled, forever struggled out of her tent to the command posts only to be herded, snarling, back to bed. Elendil still needed her desperately so he allowed her to escape the healers when she could, despite the toll it took on her wasting body. Isildur, Elendil’s firstborn, once sweet as a maple tree, now trudged through the camp covered in ash, his burnished dark skin tinged a ghostly white. He and his guard roamed with their blades unsheathed, the glint in their eyes shining like the eyes of starving wolves.

There were quite a few refugees-turned-soldiers who marched with them, folded in under Elendil’s wing. He had offered most of them positions as guards for the convoys—not wishing to force them back to the land they had fled—but nearly all of them refused. They fought with a fey fury, turning their curved blades into whirlwinds of destruction. At night they gathered around the fires with the other Mannish people and sang beautiful, aching songs without words. Erestor sat with them the nights Ereinion’s council ran late, learning their new languages, re-telling old legends, partaking in the familiar comfort of their spiced food and wine. It reminded him of his time with Maglor, when the two of them journeyed south together and passed a while among their people. Some of his Lord’s healing songs still lingered among them, twined even deeper with ancient melodies, sounds born in the Haradrim’s very awakening. Sometimes a young person might join in with a drum, or a bowed lute, but it was their voices that pricked the strings on Erestor’s spine with a deep, half-remembered grief—warm sand beneath his toes, his hair loose, the mingling lights drowning the Undying Lands with glimmering motes of dust-turned-jewels. It nearly broke him.

Durin’s folk too were only barely holding on, their once mighty fifty thousand carved away to a mere five thousand, though that count was taken a year ago and Erestor had no idea how many they had lost since. The Dwarves had never wavered, not once despite their cruel losses, and while the whole camp was still segregated by race there was hardly a campfire to be seen that didn’t have a Dwarf sitting at it, telling stories and cheering her comrades. Durin himself lost an eye in one of their earlier skirmishes, not that it kept him from the battlefield. All members of their company fought with a fierce savagery but in the thick of the fighting Durin was certainly someone to behold, his axe thick with gore and his beard smeared with blood. More often than not he could be found with one barrel-thick arm around a limp, wounded body while the other warded off attackers. He _never_ left anyone behind, not if they were still breathing. _Durin the Deathless_ legends called him, well, maybe they were right. Erestor hoped so, anyway.

As for the elves, half those Erestor had known at Court were dead, most of the rest wounded or fled to the West. Mithlond was empty, or was getting there last Erestor heard of it. He didn’t think they could ever recover this side of the sea—they’d lost too many. Even Runilion, the old fool, fell, cut down after taking up a blade for the first time in what must have been over five thousand years. At this point there was no room for anyone save soldiers—everyone fought except for the healers, who, he supposed, were doing their own sort of fighting anyway.

 _Elrond_ lived, praise be to all the powers and their many merciful blessings. Not that Ereinion was going to let him die in the first place, in fact, he had removed his Herald from the battle entirely. Elrond split his time between the command posts up on the jagged ridges surrounding Barad Dûr and the Healing Houses, Erestor an ever-present shadow at his side. Both duties ran Elrond ragged, but there was wisdom in it. For every life Elrond saved a little spark grew in his eyes, weary and lined though they were. Erestor knew that if anyone ever made it out of this war alive Elrond was going to be the one to lead them out of it.

Small mercies, but even those were running out.

Erestor did not weep—nor, in truth, had he wept in a very long time—even if he sometimes felt like the whole of the Bruinen pushed against the wall of his ribs. He had lived too long and seen too much to find it in himself to cry now. The night Oropher fell Elrond had asked him why. _I haven’t seen you weep since we left Imladris,_ he said, his eyes red-rimmed in the flickering firelight. _Why don’t you cry?_ Erestor didn’t have an answer, really, but he replied anyway. _I think there is a point past heaviness, little kestrel, where weeping doesn’t work much anymore._

The siege settled into a slow, grinding madness. The Alliance forces circled the dark tower like a moat, digging their trenches and setting their war machines against the walls. Every day Sauron sent his armies pouring out, and every day the allied forces sent them back. It was a grim sort of work, monotonous save for the brief flares of grief—a brother slain, a sister crippled, a friend lost forever, those left behind crying out in shock and sorrow. Ereinion and the other commanders kept a strict schedule to combat the despair, cycling active soldiers out with the convoys taking the permanently wounded away from the battlefield and bringing in fresh supplies. So businesslike, not at all like the glorious ballads made it out to be. War could be surprisingly mundane at times, surprisingly boring—up until someone lost someone else again, and then it was all horror.

Not that war had ever been glorious, not really—not even when their great princes of old were, occasionally, brilliant. Erestor, in all his many years, thought that the Ñoldor, after a time, had lost their luster under the every-day banality of their loves and selfishnesses. Yes, there were glorious moments, moments when they reminded him of _Who They Were,_ but, in truth, Fëanor had been the shining jewel of the Ñoldor, and none had quite reached his splendor since. Besides, he was a craftsman, a jeweler—not a warrior. TheHis Oath too had degraded them almost beyond recognition, his magnificent sons consumed until all turned to dust. After a time, Erestor began to forget what glory looked like. Beauty and wisdom he found in abundance in Elrond and Elros but _glory,_ the terror of a will bent upon a task, that was something increasingly lost to time.

And then there was Ereinion. Then there was _the King._

 _Ereinion._ Scion of Kings. Oh, by the gods, he was _magnificent._ It almost hurt to look at him, the silence of his fury whipping around him like a visible thing, like a tempest, like lightning—oh, the _wonder_ of it, the incandescent gleam of his eyes reflected in aeglos’ mithril blade, the smooth ripple of his movements, the conviction set in his jaw—he shone like a beacon, like a comet blazing through the night. Here stood Ereinion Gil-galad, and he would not be moved. _Here_ was the _King._

Erestor tried not to hate him for it. Times like these, when he lay in the soft silence and touched as much of Ereinion’s skin as he could reach, he succeeded. Other times, when he and Elrond stood on a ridge overlooking the battlefield and Erestor caught a glimpse of his long wheat-gold hair flashing between the banners of the Great Eye, he _burned_ with hatred.

 _How dare he._ How dare he risk himself when he had someone who loved him, someone waiting breathless for him in their tent, someone who _needed_ to see him live. The thought scraped him raw, rubbed salt in his wounds.

A dark grey light filtered through the canvas above them. Morning soon.

Erestor brushed his fingers over Ereinion’s bare chest, tracing up the myriad of new pink scars. The two of them had not made love in many years, but at this point that was neither here nor there. After awhile sex wasn’t enough to comfort, to remind him that they were alive, but nonetheless Erestor’s hunger for Ereinion’s body never sated itself. In the morning, when Ereinion left, Erestor yearned for him, _starving,_ and then, in the evening, when he returned from battle and whatever useless things a King needed to do, Erestor _gorged_ himself on the taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin under his grasping, needy fingers, that long silky hair tangling around them.

Nearly twenty-five years all told had Erestor lived with him, barely an inhalation of breath in the long span of his life. Twenty years had they made war against Sauron. Thirteen years pushing through to the gates, seven years inside their circle.

Seven years of waking every morning at his side only to watch him leave. Seven years of not knowing if he would ever return.

Never enough time. Never, ever, enough.

Now they crouched at the very foot of Barad Dûr, ready.

Ereinion stirred, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. He looked to Erestor, the lines in his face softening. “Good morning,” he murmured, and kissed his brow. “How long do we have till I must go?”

“A little while yet,” Erestor lied, and pressed closer.

Ereinion tucked Erestor close to his chest, resting his chin on the crown of his head. The tent was cool in the early morning air, a blessed relief from the endless heat of Barad Dûr. Erestor threaded his legs through Ereinion’s, leeching warmth off his body, the grit and grime on their skin like sandpaper between them.

Ereinion’s fingers tapped, thoughtful, along his spine. “I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he murmured. “But I’m afraid you’ll be cross with me.”

Erestor leaned back to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You certainly have poor timing. What is it?” He didn’t like questions. Questions meant uncertainty, uncertainty meant death.

Ereinion gave a wry twitch of a smile. “Have you ever thought that you might like to find someone else?”

Erestor jerked away. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” No, that wasn’t what he meant to say, he meant to say _how— what do you mean? Do you not know how I love you?_

“No,” Ereinion tugged him back, wrapping his arms around him tight. “No, you prickly thing, of course not.”

Erestor huffed and allowed himself to be cuddled, but only barely. Underneath his skin he could feel his heart pounding too fast, his blood racing. What was this new madness?

Ereinion tucked Erestor’s head back under his chin. “I just don’t want you to be lonely,” he said, wistful.

Erestor’s blood ran cold. Oh. They hadn’t spoken of it—Ereinion leaving Erestor _alone—_ not since all those years ago. But it was always there, under the surface. It was very close, now.

“Do you not love me, is that it?” Erestor snarled. It was mean, and petty, and a diversion, but it made Ereinion hold him closer.

“Hush, Erestor,” he said, unbearably tender. “You know it is because I love you that I ask. I want you to be _happy_. I don’t want you to deny another opportunity for love because you feel tethered to someone who isn’t even there. Who knows?” he laughed, or tried to. “Maybe you’ll find some bright young thing to spend your days with, to give you joy.”

“You do realize,” Erestor nipped his collarbone, short and sharp. “That you fit that description rather well?”

He snorted. “Hardly.” Now he was the one diverting the conversation, turning it away from the heart of things.

“You’re young compared to _me,_ ” Erestor growled. “I’m at least twice your age, perhaps thrice. I don’t know, we didn’t much count years in Aman. As for brightness, well,” he fisted his hand in the hair at the nape of Ereinion’s neck and _pulled._ “I think I can decide for myself whether or not you satisfy me.”

“Erestor.” Ereinion cupped his face in both his hands, tipping his chin up to meet his eyes. “Long years have you lived on this earth, true, and I have occupied a happy moment in them. But since I cannot stay, cannot give you all you need or deserve, let me be a moment’s joy only. Find another joy, a better one. Be _happy,_ Erestor.” And he touched Erestor’s brow in a feather-soft kiss.

Erestor shook, trembling all over with desperation and hatred and despair and _love,_ maybe. Then, with a choking sob, he broke. They hadn’t said anything after that night, but now, when it was all too late, he broke. “If you want to make me happy,” he ground out, teeth clenched, “Then _don’t die_ , Ereinion, my _love_ ,” his fingers curled tight in Ereinion’s hair, in the meat of his waist. _“Marry me._ ”

Something in Ereinion’s face cracked. “You know I can’t,” he said, his voice no louder than the muted fizzing from the fires outside. “You know I can’t. Remember? All those years ago? I am not Finwë, nor Fingon, nor Turgon, nor any of the others. I _cannot_ give up my crown for love, for you—and you would come to despise me if I did.”

Erestor chuckled, dark. “I think I am selfish enough to bear it.”

Ereinion gave a small smile, colored blue in the light. “And if I did? Then the person whom you love would not exist anymore. I would be changed, transfigured.”

“ _Ereinion.”_ Erestor cleaved close, met those mithril eyes. “ _Please.”_ He kissed the corner of Ereinion’s firm mouth, brushing his lips soft. “ _Please,_ Beloved—I am begging you, please—”

Ereinion trembled and closed his eyes, shutting himself away. “If I marry you then I won’t—I won’t be able to do it—” his voice cracked. “Have mercy on me, Erestor. If you speak another word I won’t be able to do what I need to do, please— have mercy.”

It was too late anyway. Erestor relented, and remained silent.

From outside the tent there came a sharp _snap!_ and then a low crumbling roar. The walls, then. They were close.

Ereinion, strangely, chuckled to himself. “Maybe I’ll be reborn. Didn’t that sort of thing used to happen, in Aman?” It was a stupid thing to say, but Erestor didn’t begrudge him. It was hard to begrudge Ereinion anything, even the lies he said to make Erestor feel better.

“No, it didn’t,” Erestor replied, and tucked his face along Ereinion’s shoulder, where he couldn’t see his eyes. “Then again, there wasn’t much death before I left.”

“Who knows?” Ereinion shrugged. “Perhaps it is possible. The Valar are a mysterious sort, maybe they will give me life again.”

Erestor scoffed. “You never knew them. The Valar are, above all, useless.” He didn’t say anything beyond that. The Valar were, it was true, useless, and capricious, and… well-meaning, he supposed. But they were not to be relied upon, and any hope he had that maybe, just _maybe,_ Ereinion could be right just made him sick at heart.

“Maybe.” Ereinion curled his fingers around Erestor’s cheeks, brushing his knuckles along the ridge of his jaw. “Maybe we will walk on the shores of Aman, you and I, and we will be able to say new things to each other.”

Erestor barked a laugh. “Maybe! I don’t exactly know how the Valar feel about kinslayers these days, despite all their placations—maybe if you can be reborn then I could return in peace.”

“You Majesty!” A hoarse voice called on the other side of the tent entrance. “King Elendil calls for you!”

“Tell him I’ll be with him as soon as I can!” Ereinion called back, then heaved himself out of bed, away.

Erestor followed, watching with wary cat’s eyes as Ereinion stripped of his night pants and began dressing in his armor. Slowly, pale stretches of freckled skin—by the gods, he was never going to get over those _freckles—_ were hidden by the dull gleam of tarnished mithril armor. It nearly broke Erestor’s heart to see him so—so _encased._

“Here,” Erestor stood and went to him. “Let me help.”

Ereinion tilted his head down as Erestor took a strip of leather and tied his hair back in its customary high-tail, his mouth dipping to linger close to Erestor’s bare shoulder. “I hate to leave you like this,” he murmured.

“Well, you’re not the only one,” Erestor huffed, tying off the high-tail with a twist.

Ereinion pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck. “Ai, but I’m afraid I’ve miss-stepped—I thought to have a little more time, to comfort you. I’m sorry.”

Erestor leaned back and cupped Ereinion’s face in his hands, trying to memorize it for the thousandth time.

Stray wisps of blond hair. Freckles bridging his nose and cheeks. A new scar, a tiny white line bisecting his mouth. Tired wrinkles around his eyes, his mouth, between his brows. Silver eyes, meeting his own.

“Tell me you love me,” Erestor said, throat tight. “Tell me you love me and I’ll forgive you.”

Ereinion caught him up in his arms and kissed him, Erestor pressed tight against the unmoving lines of his armor. “I love you, Erestor,” he whispered against his mouth. “I love you.”

Then Ereinion released him and swept out of the tent, aeglos grasped firmly in-hand— and Erestor was left alone, swaying in his wake.

The tent felt so empty without him, the whole ocean gone with the tide. It was as if Erestor didn’t even take up space, his body and soul just a hollow bubble of foam left behind on the shore.

There was nothing left to do after that, so Erestor gathered all his insides from where they were strewn on the floor and dressed in his own light armor and left the tent to find Elrond.

A bare light filtered through the ashy sky, low, foggy clouds lit pale orange from beneath by the huge fires Sauron kept burning within the tower’s walls. Erestor wondered how Sauron managed such a thing—he had not seen a lick of tinder within Mordor’s walls this whole time. Sorcery, probably, the damned show-off. The alliance had their own fires, to be true, tiny circles of hopeful light burning with sage and cleansing herbs, but they didn’t do much good. Erestor clenched his jaw against the cloying taste of ash coating his teeth, some strange acrid tang burning his eyes and throat.

By the gods, he hadn’t seen a _bird_ in years, what he wouldn’t give to wake to birdsong again.

Ereinion’s tent stood in the center of their encampment, far on a ridge overlooking the tower. There was a sort of ring of ridges and small cliffs surrounding Barad Dûr, as if the tower crashed down like a meteor from the stars, sending earth smashing away from it in waves. It looked strange enough to be from another world, from beyond the void— smoky stone rising in a single clawed finger towards the heavens, shingled and jagged with strange, twisting forms. A final _fuck you_ to the gods. Sauron couldn’t just slaughter every good thing on this earth, no, he had to put on a _show_ about it, that fucking bastard.

From this vantage point Erestor could see the whole ring of their warfare, interlocking circles of trenches and banners and barricades surrounding the tower in staggered lines. A few war machines, great hulking things designed to gnaw away at the foundations of mountains, crouched close to the front gate and snarled their way through thick, black stone. A few halfhearted crossbow bolts bounced off their dented metal plates with a _ka-plink!_ but other than that, there wasn’t much to be seen or heard coming from the tower. Things were quiet, now, the night’s savagery winding down as morning dawned. The last few orcs left outside the walls were either in the throes of death or fleeing to the south. The healers gathered the wounded, flitting from one body to the next like ghosts in the pale mist.

A brief respite. The whole of their company, stealing a few panted gasps of relief before steeling themselves to begin again. And again, and again, until it was over.

Erestor picked his way out of the cluster of tents down to the outer rim, trotting to another ridge nearby. The command post—a tiny pavilion sheltering a rickety table, which was covered with rocks holding down various maps—churned with activity. Elrond, his hair roughly pulled back in a business-like bun, loomed over the table, scanning the maps. He must not have slept all night, nor, Erestor thought, the night before, half dressed in armor and half in a spattered healer’s smock. Around him other commanders and messengers all crowded close, trying to shove a word in edgewise between the swirls of their frantic conversations.

Erestor slipped up behind Elrond’s shoulder and touched his arm briefly, alerting him of his arrival before standing back, awaiting orders.

Elrond nodded, a flinch of acknowledgement, his eyes flickering from the maps to the tower and back in a frantic staccato. There was something wild in them, something that set the hairs on the back of Erestor’s neck standing upright. His lips moved in half-formed words, silent, ignoring the chatter around him. Erestor’s hand instinctively drifted up to the hilt of his sword as he watched, wary and ready.

Something didn’t feel right, no— not wrong, necessarily, just _something else_ , something _extra_ here, something sending goosebumps up Erestor’s arms like a brush of nettles.

“Erestor,” Elrond turned to him and Erestor snapped to attention. “Find Tar-Asmaa, tell her to call the muster, _now._ ”

Erestor didn’t pause to ask why, or to salute in confirmation of an order received. He just ran, leaping down the slope into the trenches and sprinting down its length to the opposite side of the encampment. His sword thumped against the middle of his shoulder blades, _thmp-thmp-thmp_ against the pounding of his footsteps. _Find Tar-Asmaa now, now!_

Idril _knew_ , back in fated Gondolin, could Elrond—

“Out of my way!” he roared, flying through a cluster of soldiers huddled in the crook of a trench. Erestor felt as though there were wolves at his heels, Elrond’s voice ringing in his ears.

He needn’t have run so fast.

There was a high, keening wail, and the strange, glittering sound of rain, only, no rain fell. Erestor crested a ridge and looked to the tower, and there, _there—_

It all happened very quickly.

Barad Dûr’s gates opened like a cracked ribcage and Sauron’s forces came gushing out, led by two, three, no, _nine_ shadows, all _nine_ of them on black horses—the fabled Úlairi, the Monstrous Undying, nightmares made real—and then Erestor leapt back down in the thick of the trenches, away from the sight of it, howling at the slumped soldiers _Rouse yourselves! The Enemy is upon you!_

There was no time to think, only to run, his breath stripping his lungs ragged as he careened into camp, calling every standing soldier _To the front, to the gates! To your King!_ because that was where Ereinion must be, at the front, aeglos slicing through the Úlairi, so close now—

And a great cry went up behind him, in the circle of Barad Dûr—some unearthly shout, a sound Erestor had not heard in many thousands of years, the cry of a throat not made under this heaven opened in _laughter,_ yes, in cruel _joy_ — and he ran faster, his blade loosed, calling the muster himself and then the camp emptied in a silver tide rushing down like a waterfall into the bowl of the valley and Erestor followed, caught up in the panting horde of swords and banners and soldier’s mouths bared in fey smiles—

Over the slope of a helm he saw a flare of black smoke, almost like the shape of a face, and then they were back in the trenches fighting for every wretched inch of cracked Mordor ground all over again, sand soaking up blood beneath their feet. Erestor fought his way toward the command post, toward Elrond, but it wasn’t much use—there were too many of them, he kept stumbling over heaps of bodies, more pouring in from over the edge of the trench—

And then there was a _pop!_ and half a breath of silence, and Erestor cleared the lip of the trench just in time to see Isildur on the far side of the battlefield standing over a heap of ash dissolving away in the wind.

The battle tripped, then stuttered into a halt, over within… minutes? Hours?

The orcs fled. The Úlairi were nowhere to be seen. The windows of Barad Dûr sang in the wind, an empty moan.

Erestor coughed, feeling as though he had missed something, some integral signal. All around him startled soldiers wandered this way and that in a dazed confusion, unsure whether they should give pursuit or whether this was some trick, a trap all over again. They were like a flock of birds, once caught in a net now suddenly lifted, unable, yet, to conceive of flying. Many cautiously gathered their wounded and pulled away from the tower, voices dropped to whispers.

An unsettled calm settled over the valley, a skip in the beat of their warfare.

Erestor stumbled to the command post, but Elrond was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t see any of the other commanders either, so he made his way through the milling masses to where he had last seen Isildur, following the automatic soldier in his mind. _Find commander. Receive orders. Follow orders._

Over the field he could hear someone crying.

Some great empty thing tapped at the walls of his heart. _Open, Erestor,_ it ordered.

Erestor pressed a hand against his armor, against something solid and real—for a moment there he couldn’t feel his fingers, couldn’t feel anything at all.

He slid down into the cup of the valley, close to the tower. The bodies of orcs and men and dwarves and elves and whatever else littered the ground like leaves, like sheaves of spilled paper. There, at the foot of the gate, the last of the ash heap drifted away in the wind, curling up around the tower before fading away.

And there, bowed over the crumpled form of his father, knelt Isildur, his wide, wet mouth mute with grief.

_Open your gates for me, Erestor._

And there, not ten feet away, knelt Elrond, a mangled body cradled in his arms. It was his voice that Erestor could hear crying, tears running down his face into his mouth, his neck, the collar of his smock. Matted blond hair was everywhere, sticking to his cheeks, his lips, anywhere there was enough blood to hold it.

And all the emptiness rushed in at once and Erestor fell upon his hands and knees, then down on his side, and he lay there for a long while.


	16. After

They buried Ereinion by the sea, tucking the shards of aeglos in the sand with him. Erestor hated that, or felt that Ereinion might’ve hated that— Ereinion spent his whole life trying to make the need for aeglos’ work obsolete, and now he would never be free of it.

Erestor didn’t weep. He stood still as a stone as they lowered Ereinion’s body into the grave. No, it wasn’t his body. It couldn’t be. It was a mound of sheets covered in flowers. Ereinion must be somewhere else, then.

There was still so much work left to do, even after all that, and they were never going to complete it all. They tore down Barad Dûr, at least as much as they could manage, and left it at that. The trenches stayed, the tattered banners, the masses of broken arrows sprouting from the ground like grass. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave Mordor’s land unhealed, but Erestor thought that the grief they carried might be too much for it to contain, anyway. Maybe if they tried to fix everything that had been broken all at once the earth would crumble away under the strain, like Beleriand. The bitter ground would have to find its own way back to health, just like the rest of them. Even so, the day they finally left Elrond wandered the battlefield, scattering seeds over the rust-colored sand. Maybe all that spilled blood could give life again, maybe not. They would not return to find out.

More refugees than soldiers returned to Gondor with them. There were deep dungeons under Barad Dûr, filled with prisoners so pale from lack of sunlight they had to be wrapped in cloth and guided along on tottering legs like the blind. Others—slaves from the Plateau of Gorgoroth and, further south, the prison-city Thaurband along the Sea of Nurnen— came surging up from the plains and launched themselves into the arms of their surviving family members, Haradrim soldiers throwing down their swords to sweep them up in their arms. There were, of course, many who fled south, but their absence was swiftly overshadowed by the high music, like birdsong, the reunited families singing to each other in their tight, warm clusters.

There was a time Erestor would’ve hated them, but he wasn’t feeling much of anything nowadays. Just a deep hollowness, and, occasionally, an unbearable ache. When that came upon him he’d have to pause whatever he was doing, his spine curling over and his hands pressing tight to his ribs. He did not weep. He thought, maybe, he’d forgotten how. He wondered about that—and it was a better thing to think about than the other thought, the one his heart kept repeating to his mind, even if his mind couldn’t understand it.

_He’s gone._

It didn’t make sense, somehow, but it would if he gave it time. That future moment hung over him like a blade, inching toward his neck.

So he followed in Elrond’s wake, completing tasks, obeying orders, moving along like a wooden puppet. The only thing he did under his own power was to crawl into bed beside Elrond at the end of the day and curl up close to a living, breathing body— the same as Elrond had done during the Great War, his thin boy’s body shaking and cold, toes pressed between Erestor’s calves for warmth.

Then he would lie awake for the rest of the night and try desperately not to think the thought that would shatter him.

_He’s gone._

One final bruise from Ereinion’s mouth arched over his collarbone. Each night Erestor pressed and kneaded and scratched the bruise back into a wine-dark purple.

_He’s gone._

He didn’t think it. He didn’t.

And then suddenly they were riding back into Imladris, which hadn’t changed at all, and that seemed like a sort of crime, somehow. The House was the same, familiar roofs arching over familiar windows, lined with familiar vines and trees. The roar of the Bruinen, the call of late-summer birds, the sweet smell of applewood burning on cook fires, all the same. Familiar faces greeted them, shouting familiar greetings— exactly as a homecoming should be. Erestor watched himself dismount from his mare and reply as if from a distance, as if he stood a few paces from his own body.

As soon as they unpacked the necessities Elrond immediately sent them all to bed, and Erestor, unthinking, went to his room. Around the far side of the library, under the waterfall arch, through the hall, open the door, close the door, turn—

And— and it was _exactly_ as he ( _they_ ) had left it all those years ago, exactly the same—

The same line of shoes by the door ( _three pairs of Erestor’s house shoes, two of Ereinion’s slippers_ ), the same towels hung over the ridge of the bathroom screen to dry, the same crumpled sheets and quilts on his ( _their_ ) bed, and _oh_ , there, look— a heap of dirty clothes, both black and midnight blue with silver shot through like shooting stars.

Erestor swallowed. A lump choked in his throat. There was a great swelling feeling in his chest, growing, growing—He took a step forward, towards the bed. There was something else there, something he had not left behind.

A letter rested against his pillow, and, underneath, the silver carcanet.

The paper was old and yellow, with dust on the edges. The carcanet too had tarnished, but still glinted with a proud, elegant light.

Erestor sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the letter with shaking hands, careful not to drop it. Then, un-tucking the folded edges, he began to read.

 

_My Love,_

_It’s early morning and you’ve not wakened yet. There is a thin line of sunlight coming through your curtains, and as I watch I can see it crawl up the sheets to strike right through the middle of your back, painting your skin gold._

_We leave tomorrow, and all I want to do is stay here and watch this little skein of sunlight wander over every inch of your body._

_I suppose that by the time you read this the war will be over, for good or ill, and if my predictions are correct I will be gone. Perhaps I shouldn’t leave you this letter and make a clean break of it— but you are warm and pliant beside me, your raven-dark hair tumbling down your bare back, and soon, I hope, you will open your eyes and smile at me, and, if I am lucky, you will kiss me. So I think I will leave you this letter because I am feeling possessive, and I want you to have something of me that can speak to you beyond the grave—something that can comfort you, maybe._

_We were always very bad at telling each other the important things, I think._

_I wish I could have married you. I’m sorry. You have given me such joy, Erestor, and I feel I have repaid you ill. Does it matter what I would have done, if I could? I would have given you everything._

_Ah, you are stirring, I don’t have much time. Since I cannot give you everything, I will give you this: my mother named me Artanáro, or Rodnor in sindarin. My father tells me he might’ve named me differently—perhaps after my grandsire in the old tradition—but as he saw me for the first time he says that my mother had the right of it and nothing else would do. So he called me Finellach. I don’t have any other names, save for Gil-galad and Ereinion, and whatever else you please to call me._

_Would that I could always answer when you call._

_I love you, Erestor._

_Ereinion_

Everything broke, or, everything had been broken, or, everything was breaking, or—

_He’s gone._

_Oh._

_Oh no, please no—_

_Ereinion, love, please— come back! return to me, love—_

Erestor slid of the bed and onto the floor, the letter shaking before him as he read it over and over again— _my love we leave tomorrow kiss me comfort you I would have given you everything I don’t have much time I love you—_ tears splattered onto the page and Erestor folded it away to protect the words, to make sure that they wouldn’t smear, that he wouldn’t lose them— he held the letter to his chest, the paper crinkling under his fingers, and he _sobbed._

Ereinion was gone. Sauron had killed him, just as predicted. His body was buried by the sea.

And Erestor was left alone, without him.

He wept, bowed over his knees, his forehead touching the floor. Everything strung tight with grief. Oh, how he _ached._

_~*~_

Elrond found him later—how much later Erestor couldn’t tell—and took him back to his own rooms. Erestor stayed there for the evening, and the next, and the next, sorrow wringing him out like a dirty dishrag.

He wanted— _needed_ to go back to his own rooms, go back and find his lover sleeping there as if the war was a dream, as if nothing had happened, or, maybe everything had happened but it was all a lie, some dark vision sent by the enemy that would be burned away as easy as fog in the morning. He needed _Ereinion_ , needed to feel the soft weight of his skin under his palms, the surety of his hands, the warmth of his breath against Erestor’s ear—wasn’t it a cruelty, that the only person Erestor wanted to comfort him was the one who was dead?

Elrond watched, because he _always_ watched, and while he didn’t say anything Erestor knew he had an internal clock counting down to the moment he _would_ say something in that infinitely tender voice of his. But, for now, his own voice was still rough and cracked, and when Erestor wept in the dark hours of the night Elrond wept too. And that wasn’t so bad, or, rather, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Elrond understood, and that meant that Erestor wasn’t completely lost.

Lindir, blesséd Lindir, sewed him a whole wardrobe full of rich black robes to mourn in, and when Erestor found them laid out on his bed, an ocean of ink, he broke all over again. Such a kind, gentle gift. They all had high collars too, high enough to hide the carcanet if he wished—almost as if Lindir had known, or, knowing him, as if he _did_ know, and understood what Erestor needed.

But if Erestor wore Finarfin’s carcanet where others could see the rumors would be unbearable. For now, people suspected— for all most knew Erestor was nothing more than a bedwarmer—but if he wore the carcanet not only would they _know_ but they would _talk._ The high collar would protect him, if he wished to risk it.

Erestor, after a long deliberation with himself, tucked the carcanet away. Maybe. Maybe someday, but not now. Now, his throat was too tight to bear any more than the collar of his robes pressing against it.

Sometimes, late at night as they lay beside each other, Erestor, careful not to wake him, would curl a single hair from Elrond’s head around his finger. Tighter and tighter until the tip bloomed with strange, thick pains, skin flushed like a bruise. Then he’d slowly unwind the hair and let the blood flow, over and over until the sun rose. It reminded him not to leave the tent and walk in his bare feet back to Mordor, back into the wastes forever. He _loved_ Elrond, and would not leave him—but sometimes the soles of his feet would lose feeling, or the back of his neck, or, terrifyingly, his hands, and he thought, perhaps, that this river of grief inside him might devour him whole anyway.

A little while after they arrived the bite-mark on his collarbone, long overstayed, faded into unblemished, creamy smoothness. Erestor walked deep into the woods, far from hearing, and wept.


	17. Breathe

Elrond might have noticed first, but Tar-Asmaa was the first one to _say_ anything about it.

Elrond, after the war, invited her to join them in Imladris, where he could tend to her healing properly. She’d sustained a blow from a catapult stone that broke her hip and took both her legs off above the knee, and the thick, poisonous air of Mordor had given her a dry, chronic cough. She’d readily agreed—Gondor and Arnor had no need of her now.

Imladris proved good for her body, less so for her mind. Her cough left, and the woodworkers worked on special wheeled chair for her, but for now she was mostly confined to the Healer’s Ward and was desperately miserable.

Erestor visited her when he remembered to, but it was difficult to remember things he wasn’t actively being told. When he did remember that he had forgotten, yet again, to visit her, he felt a sense of gnawing guilt that only sharpened his grief. She was a good friend, had proved herself a thousand times over, and yet he couldn’t walk the few paces it would take to go to her rooms. It seemed too much, somehow.

He too might’ve thought himself desperately miserable if only he’d taken the time to think of it, save, he had much work to do, and it was hard to get everything done when he kept having to duck away into secluded alcoves to muffle his cries into his sleeve.

They were home a few weeks when a cold front blew through, the first harbinger of fall. A battering rain followed in its wake, sudden and merciless. Erestor, caught in the swell on an errand, ran to the first open door he could find and tucked himself inside.

It was a storeroom, or upon first glance it seemed to be. Dried athelas and other healing herbs hung from the rafters next to clear bottles of ointments, hung two or three on a line from hooks. The milky liquid inside glowed when the light caught it. Crates lined the walls, filled with hidden swaddled things cradled in straw, and in a far corner sat a huge barrel filled with apples. Erestor wrung his hair out, grimacing, his steps trailing puddles as he walked further into the room. Behind him he could hear the rain thundering down on the stone walkway outside—he must have left the door open. Forgetful.

“Don’t get me wet,” a voice grumbled, low and gravely.

Erestor turned to see a large bed shoved beneath a far window. On it laid Tar-Asmaa, nested in layers of warg pelts stripped from Sauron’s curs. A bottle of wine, half-empty, tilted in the fur. There were no cups to be seen.

She cracked a single red-rimmed eye open at him, then closed it. “Leave the door open if you’re staying. I want to hear the rain.”

“As you wish,” Erestor replied absently, sitting heavy on the wooden floor next to her bed. “So long as I may hide out here with you.” His hair stuck to his face in wet trails and his nose was running, so he wiped at them with the back of his sleeve. Everything was very cold, and very numb.

“I thought you were in the Healing Rooms?” He said, looking up to the dried herbs in the rafters.

“Some idiot fell and broke his leg,” her grumbling voice replied. “I couldn’t nap with him moaning and groaning like that.”

Erestor hummed in return, water dripping off him in rivulets.

“Tell me, Erestor,” Tar-Asmaa shifted slightly, turning to him. “I heard some strange elven rumor that you folk can die of grief. Is that true?”

Erestor blinked, facing her. “Hmm?” She seemed very far away and very near at once, shifting in his vision.

“I heard you elves can die of sorrow, is it true?” She continued, leaning on her elbow to peer down at him from the tall bed. “It sounds like the silly sort of thing you strange folk would be able to do. However, it seems to me that this whole affair might cause someone to die of grief if anything could, only, I haven’t seen it happen.”

Erestor nodded, and met her deep, questioning eyes. “It has been known to happen, yes, but very, very rarely. We call it “fading,” when we die that way.” Ai, he sounded like a lecturer, little Elrond and Elros ignoring his lessons again.

She looked at him for a long moment. The rain dripped out of his robes to pool around him. “Are you thinking about it?” she asked.

He blinked again, a little uncertain. “About what?”

“About fading.” Her voice was very low and quiet. Outside, the rain beat like a volley of arrows.

His brow furrowed. “We were just talking about it, yes—”

She held up a hand. “Are you thinking that _you_ might die of grief?”

“Yes,” he said, without even really meaning to, but it was true nonetheless. He had been trying very hard not to fade, or, had been trying very hard to not think about it— they weren’t married when he fell, he shouldn’t feel like this—but as he allowed himself to consider it further he realized he was very tired, and he wasn’t sure sleep was going to help.

He’d always hated Míriel, frowning when he felt generous and sneering when he didn’t. He’d hated those fools who faded after losing their spouses too, thinking them weak-willed and frivolous to put aside their lives in favor of… of _nothingness._ The Fëanoryn fought for every inch of their lives, and Erestor had no time for those who didn’t.

Right now he hated himself, and hated that it had taken Tar-Asmaa’s piercing eye to show him the truth. He was tired and lonely. He wanted to lie down, like Míriel among the sweet grasses and bowered trees, and not lift his head again unless Ereinion lifted it for him.

“Well, if you do,” she replied, a wry tilt in her mouth, “Do it after I’m dead, hm? I like you, Erestor, and I think you’re the only one who I’ll trust to push around my wheely-chair without driving me mad.”

He blinked up at her, staring into her kind, forthright gaze. “Alright,” he said, again without thinking, and again it was true. He remembered Elrond, how much he desperately loved Elrond—and how he might be a little selfish, thinking of fading when the one had had loved longest and best still needed him. Maybe Míriel couldn’t help fading, not with whatever it was that was inside her—but _he_ could help it, he knew that truth like he knew his own palm.

Suddenly, as if all the feeling—in truth, as if his _whole self—_ rushed into his body at once, the wetness of his robes became unbearable. “Pardon me,” he said, plucking at them. “These feel terrible.” He shucked them off along with his shoes and stockings until he was dressed only in his undershirt and trousers.

She chuckled, rocks tumbling over themselves in the surf. “You look like a wet rat. Come on,” she patted the bed beside her and handed him a warg pelt. He obeyed, lifting himself up onto the bed and wrapping the fur around his shoulders. Then, slowly, he began warm again. Everything around him felt very immediate—the pelt, the papery-coolness of his skin, the rain-sounds in his ears, the frankness of Tar-Asmaa’s gaze—and it hurt a little, feeling everything so clearly.

“Drink up,” she said, and pushed the wine bottle at him.

He took it and gulped down half of what was left in one pull.

“Did you ever lose anyone, before him?” Tar-Asmaa asked, leaning back against the wall. The grey light from the window made her white hair look as if it were made of snow, or spun spider webs.

“Once before,” Erestor answered, remembering another snowy-haired head, this one with a crown and peaceful amber eyes. “But Elros was glad to go.”

“Ye gods, I forget you’re so old. Mighty unfair looking as good as you do at your age.” She rubbed her chin, laughing softly to herself. “No one else, then?”

He shook his head. Water trickled down his neck, drawing a shiver over his skin.

She gave him a slow, knowing smile. “My, no wonder you’re as wretched as you are. You’re out of practice.”

He cocked his head. “Out of practice?”

“Mmm-Hmm,” she nodded. “We Men tend to lose people left and right, up until we ourselves are lost. I suppose we get good at grieving. You, however,” she gave a wry chuckle. “You only lost the one! And he was a Man, and had the nature for dying already inside him, and so made things easier on you. However, this one didn’t have the nature for death in the first place, and wanted to stay besides. You must not be doing very well at all.”

He laughed at that, actually laughed. “Indeed!” He felt light, or, lighter than before, as if he had tripped and was now midway through the air, weightless.

She joined him, a great, dry bellow of a laugh coming from her throat. “Ah, Erestor, I don’t envy you. Tell me, was he a very great fool about it all? My Lord and King was always going on about sacrifice and honor and whatever other bullshit sounded good coming off his tongue.”

Erestor buried his face in his hands, giggling. “He _was!_ Never was there a better martyr. You know he wanted to marry me? But he wouldn’t, damn him, because he had to go throw himself under Gorthaur’s heel instead.” The tears and laughter mingled now, seeping out of him like a lanced boil.

Tar-Asmaa snorted, and took a gulp of wine. “Anyone who looked at him could see he wanted to marry you, love-struck dove cooing over your every step. Is it true Elves only love once in their lifetime? That’s another silly rumor I heard, though if it’s true then I feel very sorry for you.”

Erestor wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “That one’s not true—Elrond’s great-some-odd-grandsire Finwë married twice and loved both, though there’s more to that story than I care to tell. Though, now that you mention it,” He leaned back against the wall, his feet dangling off the lip of the bed. “It might be true for some of us. Elrond, I think, believes in that sort of thing, and if he believes it then it may well prove right.”

“Well, I’ve heard about Elrond’s Lady, or the Lady he hopes will be his, and I suppose that if you had a Lady like that you’d damn well hope you were destined to be together forever.” Tar-Asmaa stared out the window at the rain, wistful. “We Men can love many times, as you must have heard in all your long travels. I myself have had a few loves—some of them true loves, even.”

He stared at her and she met his eyes, steady and sure. “Oh yes,” she said. “I lost a wife in the war, and a husband long before that.”

“ _How—_ ” he choked, strung tight upon her every word. “How did you _survive_? _How?_ ”

She patted his thigh, like she was the ancient one and he the young child. “Hush, you. It’s not so unknowable as all that. It’s very painful, yes, and even if I were able to tell you every detail I could not describe the pain to you. You know it well enough for yourself, I think.” She gave a grimace. “Ugh, even saying it like that makes it sound terrible. Here,” she handed him the last of the wine. “Best solution.”

He slammed it back. “I think you’re on to something there,” he replied, sinking into the fur. The wine danced, a low heat on his tongue. “You said you had a wife you lost in the war? How did I not know her?”

She shrugged. “By our count this war has been going on much longer than by your count. She died soon after we arrived on these shores, ambushed in a patrol. You wouldn’t have had an opportunity to meet her, though I have to say, I don’t think you would’ve gotten along. She had a tongue on her like forge flame, enough, I think, to scorch even your prickly lordship. Ah,” She sighed. “We survived all that mess in Númenor, only for a measly little arrow to sever it all.”

Erestor ran his finger over the rim of the bottle. “And your husband?”

“Sickness. Slower than an arrow, but faster than it might’ve been.” She tapped her fingers on the windowsill. “He was a big, burly fellow. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the strangeness of seeing him like that, unable to even lift a glass to his mouth.”

Erestor pursed his lips, remembering the body-but-not-a-body as it slumped in the sandy grave. His heart beat sluggish in his chest, every _thump_ a mountainous effort.

“Come now, Erestor. Tell me a little about your Gil-galad.” She offered him a kind smile, cut with a hint of mischievousness. “Was his “lance” as keen as the stories say?”

And that, somehow, did the trick. He huffed at her, a little of his old sharpness returning to his mouth, like fresh water after stale wine. The weight in his chest lifted—not entirely, but enough. “Were I to tell you the truth of it, my Lady, you would blush with jealousy.”

She laughed. “Would I? It seems to me I have a larger pool of comparison, I don’t know that you could make me blush that easily. Besides, I said my ladylove had a tongue like fire and I wasn’t lying—perhaps if I were to tell my own truth I might have you squirming instead.”

Elrond found them a few hours later, walking in on them in the middle of an _incredibly_ salacious story about all the many pleasures one could achieve with the help of a few yards of ribbon and aeglos’ sturdy length.

“You do realize,” he said, his ears blazing red, “That I could hear you halfway down the hall?” He examined them with a quizzical eye; Erestor snuggled up in Tar-Asmaa’s bed in only his underthings and the two of them already halfway through another bottle.

“Oh, hush you,” Tar-Asmaa threw a pillow at him. “Unless you have something to add to the conversation, in which case, come closer, my pretty one.”

Elrond’s eyebrows rose at that. “I haven’t been called _pretty_ in a fair amount of time,” he said, barely maintaining his Esteeméd Lord mien.

“Not to your face,” she replied, quick as a cricket. “But come, my Lord, and if you will not join then make yourself useful and bring us dinner and another bottle to enjoy. We’re running low, and we’ve built up an appetite.” She looked to Erestor, beaming.

Elrond threw up his hands and left, to fulfill their wish or to ignore them Erestor knew not which. Tar-Asmaa laughed and blew a kiss after him, clearly enjoying herself for the first time in a long time.

Erestor, for his part, felt slightly buzzed and… not happy, not by a long shot, but better.

He felt better.


	18. Walk

His grief faded after that, or, more accurately, condensed down into something he could carry instead of something in which he could drown. And, strangely, it sweetened some, a thread cutting through the bitterness like honey. The grief—deep, haunting grief—hadn’t changed, but it was the only place Erestor could find Ereinion anymore, could feel him close, and that meant that it was infinitely precious to him. He wouldn’t give it up, even if he could.

Winter blew through with a vengeance, bringing thick sheets of ice and huge snowdrifts rising like mountains over their roofs. Erestor found himself spending more time with Tar-Asmaa, seeing as Elrond was full in the throes of new love and spent all his free time writing letters. Tar-Asmaa’s wheeled chair, marvelous as it was, slipped easily on the ice and so Erestor helped her traverse the walkways when she wanted to get some fresh air. They’d sit out on a balcony, swaddled in furs, and drink hot tea while sniping at each other and any other unfortunate person who came along.

“Tell me, O Ancient One,” Tar-Asmaa tipped the last drops of liquor out of her flask into her tea, her breath steaming in the chill air. Below them, in the main square, Lothlorien’s silver riders trotted through the archway in a stream of glimmering bells and pearly white robes. “Why has Elrond waited all these many years to fall in love?”

“Being ancient doesn’t count if you’re immortal, Old Woman,” He countered, watching as Galadriel and Celeborn crested the bridge. He had met Celebrían only in passing, when she was only just beginning to come into maturity, and while he thought she possessed the bearings of greatness he didn’t consider her significant to his life. He was curious, Elrond having proved him wrong, to reexamine his earlier assumptions. “Elrond, unlike our miserable selves, is more prudent in his timing.”

Tar-Asmaa snorted, a dragon’s-mist plume huffed from her nose. “I suppose that’s true. Oh look, here she comes!”

And indeed, here she came— _silver queen_ indeed! Mithril-bright hair cascaded down her back like a fountain of moonlight, cheeks and lips flushed rosebud pink in the cold, her warm grey eyes alight with laughter. Celebrían rode into the courtyard like a dream of springtime, somehow both… _less_ and _more_ than her illustrious parents. Less refined, less austere—she tugged her cloak as it slipped down her shoulders, giggling slightly as hair blew in her face—yet more open, more… ordinary. Her lips were chapped, her cloak stained with mud, and her laugh! By the gods, her laugh! She had a huge, rollicking laugh, like birds awakening after the first thaw in all their full-throated splendor.

Erestor choked a little on his tea. Well, he wasn’t expecting to be _this wrong_ about her. She didn’t have any greatness in her, no, she had something much more valuable: a visible gentleness, shining amongst her obvious beauty and charm. She dismounted from her horse with an _oof,_ patted its dappled grey shoulder and offered it a treat from her pocket; then very deliberately she snuck a peek over at Elrond, who was currently attempting to play host to her parents while blushing furiously.

“Is that really her?” Tar-Asmaa nudged him with her pointy elbow. “By the gods, whatever did Elrond do to get a girl like _that_?”

“You tell me.” Erestor replied, brows raised as he watched her weave easily through the hordes of attendants trying to offer her assistance. She alighted at Elrond’s side, where she took his arm and kissed his cheek in one smooth gesture. Her trying-to-be-delighted-but-mostly-horrified parents froze while Elrond flushed to the tips of his ears, beaming.

Tar-Asmaa cackled. “She’s _dangerous,_ that one. You better be on your guard.”

Erestor sighed a little, a slight _hm._ He wished Ereinion were here—he could see Ereinion humming to himself in joy as he witnessed this moment after such a war, his mouth stretched wide in a delighted grin. He would be right in the thick of it, standing down in the courtyard at Elrond’s side, diplomatically distracting his aunt and uncle so Elrond could slip a private word in Celebrían’s ear. Then the pride, the happiness rising in his silver eyes as he glanced to the new lovers, his joy as evident as light through a crystal. He’d congratulate them both, shower them with an embarrassing amount of gifts, slip something highly inappropriate into Elrond’s rooms when he wasn’t looking—or maybe he’d simply go right to Celebrían, sit her down and spend hours exchanging secrets, laughing till the stars faded in the morning light. Celebrían was his cousin, wasn’t she? First cousin once removed, if Erestor remembered correctly. He could recognize it, if faintly—they had similar eyes, the silver coming straight down the line from Eärwen herself. That, and something else… ah, there it was. Celebrían leaned over to Elrond and whispered something in his ear, a certain mischievous confidence in the tilt of her brow. Yes, she knew _exactly_ what she wanted, and she knew Elrond was going to give it to her. Erestor laughed softly to himself, mouth tilted in a wry smile. It was very well that she clearly had no political aspirations, seeing as she would’ve terrorized the known world. Erestor shuddered to think what she and Ereinion could’ve schemed together—none of it good news for either him or Elrond.

By the gods, he and Ereinion would’ve married already, wouldn’t they? If he had survived the war? He would have been Ereinion’s _husband._ They would have attended Elrond’s wedding as a married couple, Erestor’s hand curved over Ereinion’s arm as his… what was the word? Royal Consort? No, not to them. Husband. Love. _One._ The two of them would laugh over memories of their own wedding and snicker at the new couple, sneak heated kisses between events and settle down in their own bed after—

Under the blanket Erestor rubbed the opal ring on his finger, pressing it hard into his skin. He’d left it behind, during the war, not wanting to break it. Now, it never left his hand.

It was as close as he got to what he wanted—wispy fantasies and a wedding band that wasn’t a wedding band.

 ~*~

Erestor met Celebrían officially—well, “officially”— a few hours later, after all the chaos died down somewhat. With Galadriel, Celeborn, and Celebrían, ( _presumably_ ) safely tucked away in their rooms, the rest of their delegation split to either run errands or catch up with old friends. Erestor, possessing a rare few minutes of peace, carried a basket full of fresh tealeaves and some of Elrond’s favorite treats up to his rooms. Celebrían’s visit was ostensibly “just a visit,” but one that everyone knew would end with Celebrían not returning to Lothlorien with her parents. Galadriel and Elrond were longtime friends and allies, but Celebrían was her _only daughter._ Erestor thought there might be more opportunity for tension than they originally expected.

“My Lord?” Erestor opened the door. “I’ve brought you—”

He stopped up short. There, halfway through the open window, was Celebrían.

“Hello Erestor,” she said, as if she’d known him her whole life. “I’m afraid my dress’s caught on a bramble, could you help me?”

He blinked. “Of course?”

She smiled at him, and by the gods, what was it with Finarfin’s line that he couldn’t resist?

Elrond found them a little while later, looking like a snow owl with his hair dusted with frost and his eyes wide with confusion. “Celebrían? I thought—Erestor? How—?”

Erestor set down his teacup. “She climbed in through the window.”

“You _what?_ ” Elrond spluttered, closing the door behind him after a quick look to make sure no one had seen them. “Your mother’s going to kill me, you know.”

Celebrían, serene as a dove, took a sip of her tea. “She doesn’t know. The only one who knows is Erestor, though I’m sure he’ll soon forget about something as silly as a girl climbing through a window, what with his busy and important schedule.” She gave him a knowing look over the rim of her cup. “In fact, he was just about to leave, the poor thing. Really Elrond, you work him too hard.”

Erestor stared at her, at the sweet, playful curve of her lips. Then, damn her, she _winked._

“If you possess even an iota of wisdom, my Lord, you had better keep her,” he said, rising from the couch.

“Who says he’s keeping me?” Celebrían chuckled. “ _I’m_ keeping _him._ ”

And who could argue with that? Certainly not Erestor, who left the room with his heart pierced through with the memory of another far-away window, opening to a path, a door, a garden. To the soft welcome of a lover. If Ereinion were here Erestor would go back to their rooms and whisper his cousin’s secret in his ear, then a few of his own as well. _I love you, and I always will._

Erestor heard Celebrían’s bubbling laughter muffled behind the door followed my Elrond’s frantic shushing, and smiled, if only a little.

And he really should’ve listened to Tar-Asmaa and kept his guard up, or maybe Celebrían had overthrown him even before he could recognize it happening, but the day he stood in for Elrond’s father and gave Elrond away to his new wife his worn, tired heart cracked open and all at once he loved her— he loved Celebrían just as deeply as he loved Elrond, and Elros, and, yes, Ereinion. He wept, wiping the tears flowing down his face with his sleeve as Elrond took her into his arms and kissed her, sealing their vow.

 ~*~

And then, and _then—_

They were hip-deep in another winter when Elrond clattered into his rooms in the middle of the night, face flushed and wet and _alight—_

Erestor bolted from his bed and ran to the door, where Elrond, heaving, held himself steady against the doorpost. He wrapped Elrond up in his arms, holding him up, saying, “Elrond? What is it, what’s—”

“ _Erestor—!”_ He laughed, or sobbed, Erestor couldn’t tell which, “Erestor, we’re having _twins!_ ”

 _Twins._ Oh, by all the gods, _twins._

He and Elrond slumped together against the doorway, shaking and laughing and crying until their tears froze on their cheeks from the cold.

Elladan and Elrohir arrived in the spring, and they _flooded_ his world. All too often Tar-Asmaa found him with one or the other curled up on his chest, Erestor’s left hand scribbling down council notes while the right supported a small, dark-haired head against his collarbone. She’s laugh at him a little, scold Elrond for not paying his nursemaid properly, and then they’d chat while the elfling on his chest snoozed away.

And, one day in the middle of summer, he and Tar-Asmaa took the twins out to a grassy patch to watch the fireflies arrive. Overhead the clouds swelled with rain, cut pink in the sunset splendor, and the dragonflies dipped over the still water. Tar-Asmaa dozed in her chair beside him, Elladan snoring in the crook of her arm. Elrohir chewed on Erestor’s collar, making soft cooing noises and snuffling in Erestor’s hair.

And Erestor realized he was happy.

He looked to the empty grass beside him, almost expecting to see Ereinion there, the long golden length of his body stretched out in the evening light. The war ended a hundred years past now, and he still dreamed of Ereinion at his side every time he closed his eyes. In the beginning the dreams tilted away from him, filled with blood and eerie stillness, and he would wake with his throat dry and raw. Now they arrived quiet, tinged downy-soft with time, and when he woke he did so with only a low, familiar longing. _Ai, my love_. More often than not, Erestor dreamed of simply returning to his rooms after a long day, only to find Ereinion asleep in his bed. Erestor would stare at him for a few moments, unsurprised in the way dreams were unsurprising, then disrobe to curl up next to him. Ereinion would yawn, blink at him, maybe give him a kiss or nuzzle his neck, and then, in that low voice of his, he would say, _Come here, beloved. I’ve missed you._

Elrohir gurgled, his tiny hands opening and closing around Erestor’s hair.

Ereinion was gone. Erestor trusted the Valar little, the idea of rebirth even less. The rest of Erestor’s years stretched before him, endless and… not alone. Without _him_ , yes, without his love, but not alone. Elrohir lifted his wobbling head, then slumped back down with a _mph!_

Erestor rubbed the ring on his finger, thoughtful. _Have you ever thought you might like to find someone else?_ Ereinion gave him permission, he knew—to move on, to find another love, to… forget him. As if he could find someone, _anyone_ else. As if he wouldn’t resent them for having the wrong color hair, the wrong eyes, the wrong timbre in their voice.

Ai, and what if Ereinion had said _I will never stop loving you, through death and beyond—I will find you at the end of the world—_ what then?

Ereinion never asked for the things he needed, only receiving what Erestor was willing to give. He never asked, _will you wait for me? Even unto the end of the world?_ and Erestor never said, _I will love you forever._ He should have.

_We were always very bad at telling each other the important things, I think._

There was nothing for it now. Nothing would have changed, words or no. Ereinion would still be dead, and Erestor… Erestor would still love him. Yes, forever.

Erestor laid a hand on Elrohir’s feather-soft hair. It was possible to live on without Ereinion. Erestor could be happy, could give happiness to others, could continue to love him even though he was gone. He could live the life Ereinion died to give him, could live with Elrond and Celebrían and the twins and—he gave a wry smile— Tar-Asmaa, that cranky old woman. He could continue on.

And he could wait—wait until the end of the world. He could carry this emptiness inside himself for that long. If the dead were raised for battle Erestor would find him again, and this time he wouldn’t leave his side. And if they weren’t, well, it was the end of the world. It would be over soon enough, and then Erestor could follow wherever Ereinion had gone.

And that thought was enough to satisfy him, to let him live a true life with those he called his family.

At least— at least until _he_ arrived.


	19. Burst

Tar-Asmaa drifted off in her sleep a few years later, seated in her chair under the fiery shade of a maple tree. Her loss ached within him—but what she said was true. She had the gift for dying inside her, and she was ready to receive it. Erestor couldn’t begrudge her that.

Elrond gave him the next day off anyway, arranging for others to prepare her funeral. She’d made Erestor promise that he would take care of the arrangements himself, but he also felt that not doing them would give her something to laugh at him about from wherever it was that Men went when they died.

_Ah, Erestor, you sentimental fool, couldn’t even arrange my funeral, hmm? Will you throw yourself onto your pillow and fade away now that I’m gone? Good! Serves you right, you silly old thing._

He went for a walk instead, leaving Imladris’ gates to wander the road through the mountains. The birch trees flurried gold around him, the sky high and clear as a trumpet, and he let himself drift in his sadness awhile.

And then _he_ arrived, and Erestor’s sadness ignited into _rage._

In the distance Erestor could hear the sounds of birds, maybe a hawk scrying out a new hunting ground, and—he pricked his ears to the sound— bells? He craned his neck to see around a bend in the road, the jingling bells growing louder alongside the _click-clack_ of hooves.

A rider swung into view, astride a pretty little mare with bells in her mane and tail. His face, hooded in a deep blue cloak, revealed little save for a sweet smile curving into a wide grin as he caught sight of Erestor.

“My Lord Erestor!” He threw back his hood, laughing as he revealed a mountain of glorious golden hair and twinkling blue eyes. “Is that you? Why, of course it is! Naturally you’d still be here, you sly fox!”

Erestor stared at him, frozen. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

The rider leapt down from his mare, grinning. “You remember me, don’t you?”

He did. Erestor stared, mouth agape, at _Glorfindel,_ Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, vanguard of the Gondolindrim, fabled slayer of balrogs. Of course Erestor _remembered_ him. Erestor was the Fëanoryn Emissary to Turgon’s court before the Gondolin was built and, out of all the Gondolindrim, worked the closest with Glorfindel—mostly because none of the others could _stand_ him for very long. Glorfindel was the most patient (or perhaps most easily duped) of the group, and unofficially became Erestor’s host while he sojourned with them. They worked well together, or as well as could be expected for Turgon’s Golden Boy and a Kinslayer.

Last Erestor heard, however, Glorfindel was _dead at the bottom of a ravine_.

“Where have you _been?_ ” Erestor snarled, wary and not a little afraid.

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. “Good to know some things haven’t changed. You’re as sharp-tongued as ever.” He offered a winning smile. “I’ve been in Mandos.”

 _“Stop being obtuse,_ ” Erestor hissed. His hands itched for his sword—he’d left it behind.

“I was in the Halls of Mandos,” Glorfindel replied, placid. “That’s where you go, when you die.”

“So you did die, then,” Erestor growled, baring his teeth as Glorfindel stepped closer. “Are you now a ghost, or a wraith come to torment us?”

“Neither,” Glorfindel held out his hands, palms up. “I’ve been reborn, and sent here with a message from the Valar.”

Erestor barked a laugh, sharp. “That’s a poor lie, my Lord! Tell me, do all wraiths wear faces as fair as yours?”

Glorfindel, damn him, rolled his eyes. “As suspicious as ever. Come, what must I do to prove myself to you? My errand is urgent, and I’d rather get going than spend all day arguing with you.”

Erestor paused, braced to fly back to Imladris should Glorfindel make one wrong move. His heart raced in his chest, unwilling, _unable_ to believe— “What is your message?”

His face fell a little. “It is a grievous message indeed, and I would rather go to Lord Elrond before I give it elsewhere. But here, if you doubt me further,” he pulled a rolled scroll from his belt and tossed it at Erestor’s feet, sensing, perhaps, that Erestor would not come close enough to take it from his hand. “Lord Círdan will confirm my tale.”

Erestor bent and took the letter, his eyes never leaving the impossible elf before him. If what he said was _true,_ if Glorfindel was _risen from the dead—_ his breath choked in his throat.

It was true.

By the gods, _it was true._

Círdan’s looping script, written in an old war-time code, confirmed it. Erestor folded the missive, trembling. _The Valar raised him from the dead. The Valar sent him here, sent him back, he died and now he is alive—_

Glorfindel waited for him to respond, patient. His sprightly mare ducked her head, snorting.

Erestor managed to fold the letter and tuck it in the front of his robe. “It seems I was mistaken,” he managed, no doubt trembling like a leaf. Then, as graciously as he could, he gestured for Glorfindel to follow him up the road. “How… how much do you know about what has passed in your absence?” he said, trying to form his tongue around politeness when it lay so thick in his mouth.

Glorfindel fell into step beside him. “Not much, in truth. After Mandos gave me form again the Valar mostly just tossed me on a boat and shoved me in a general easterly direction. Poor Círdan had the fright of his life when he found me. Once he’d calmed down he told me a little, namely,” his voice skipped a bit, “that Beleriand was gone, and Morgoth with it, though Sauron escaped judgment.”

“That’s a quick view of it, I suppose,” Erestor replied, voice schooled flat. Inside his chest his heart crumpled in on itself, keening— _why is he here, why—_ what did it mean, that the gods held the power of resurrection in their hands? Why _now_ , why _him_ and not—

Glorfindel continued, carefully nonchalant. “He mentioned the kinslayings, as well.”

Erestor chuckled, dark, a little of his turmoil leaking through. “Ai, my Lord, I will give you an answer to the question you are not asking. You knew me as cruel, and crueler I became. Yes, I was there, and my blade did not spend the day sheathed.”

“And now you are here,” Glorfindel returned, guarded. “And you—”

 _“Erestor!!”_ Two dark-haired elflings catapulted themselves out of the underbrush and into Erestor’s arms, clambering up his robes with shouts of _“We have you now!”_ and _“Surrender!”_

Erestor, much practiced, quickly shoved one squirming body under each arm. Oh, praise the gods for Elladan and Elrohir, his beautiful young kestrels. His heart began to calm, the voice inside quiet if not silent.

Glorfindel stood blinking at them, shocked. “And who might you be?” he asked one panting bundle.

“’Rohir. ‘n that’s ‘Dan.” Elrohir pointed at his brother, who vainly tried to reach up and yank at Erestor’s hair.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Glorfindel replied, falling back in step as Erestor marched them back up to Imladris. “I’m Glorfindel.”

“Like the _balrog-slayer?!_ ” Elladan screeched.

Glorfindel, to his credit, seemed unfazed. “The very same.”

Erestor could almost hear their eyes growing wide as saucers. “This,” he lifted an arm before they could begin interrogating. “Is Elladan. The other is Elrohir.” He gave Glorfindel a tiny smile at that—he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel spiteful now, not with Glorfindel brining the twins such delight.

Glorfindel regarded him with a cool look. “Yours?”

“By the gods, no.” Erestor replied with an eye roll of his own. “They’re Elrond’s. He, by the way, is Eärendil’s son. And, before you mention the kinslayings again,” his voice lilted, sarcastic. “He is Maglor and Maedhros’ adopted son as well.”

Erestor allowed himself a sincere moment of joy at watching the wheels turn in Glorfindel’s mind, only to come up short. “I give up,” Glorfindel said, chuckling. “Explain.”

And Erestor wanted to smile back at him, maybe smirk in companionable teasing, but under the surface, hidden under the calmness inside himself a deep and terrible question rose against the cage of his ribs, begging to be given a voice— _why him? Why was he given life, and not another? Why not Ereinion?!_

He grit his teeth and walked faster. “Perhaps later,” he said. “For now, I shall take you to Elrond.”

After depositing the twins in the fishpond for their impudence, Erestor led Glorfindel to Elrond’s office.

“My Lord,” he said, entering, “I—”

“Should be having a day off,” Elrond returned, cutting him off. He sat at his desk, organizing a few papers, his face weary. “Erestor, I’ll take care of it, you don’t have to do anything for the funeral. I know she— oh?”

Erestor opened the door wider, revealing Glorfindel. “There’s been a catastrophic change in the Universe, my Lord. I thought I should notify you.”

Elrond cocked his head, confused. “Who’s this? And why?”

Erestor came to sit on the edge of Elrond’s desk, arms crossed. With the twins gone, seriousness settled like silt back over them. “That,” he tilted his chin up at Glorfindel, still standing in the doorway. “Is Lord Glorfindel of the Gondolindrim. If you remember anything of what I taught you, you’ll remember that he _died_ defending your father. Now, apparently, the Valar have seen fit to give him life once more.” His teeth snapped over his words, sharper than he meant.

Elrond caught the anger in his eyes, and looked with caution to Glorfindel. “Come in, my Lord, and congratulations? I suppose?” he said, rising to show Glorfindel a seat inside. “We know little of the business of the gods, much less the business of life and death. Is there a reason you have returned?”

Glorfindel entered, his shoulders stiff. He stood before Elrond, hands clasped behind him, and when he spoke his voice swung low with weighted sorrow. “There is. I have been sent as an emissary from Aman, carrying with me a message and a warning: Sauron yet lives. The blow Isildur dealt him merely unhoused him from his body and did not destroy him entire. He now seeks to regain his former power, and gathers those still loyal to him in the east. Orcs now make their way north, and the Úlairi ride once more.”

Distantly, Erestor registered a loud crash—his hand slipped, knocking a stack of books off Elrond’s desk. Papers fluttered around him like feathers, and, oh— he was slipping too, his legs weak as a faun’s, slumping down against the desk, Elrond’s chair, Elrond’s arms.

_Sauron lives. He died for nothing._

He righted himself, shaking—Elrond at his side with tears in his eyes and Glorfindel reaching out, hesitant, wanting to offer assistance—

_Ereinion died for nothing._

“Pardon me,” Erestor managed, swallowing hard. “Pardon me, I must go—” and he stumbled out of the room, down the hall—

He managed to make it to his bed, at least, the door shut behind him.

_Oh, by all the gods— please, have we not suffered enough?_

The room, silent and cold, pooled around him, un-answering. No relief, not in the rafters crossing the high ceiling, the tapestries hanging limp on the walls, the windows curtained shut. Stillness settled like dust. All through the room sat un-breathing things, books and papers and blankets and… _hair._ Yet another sharpness tangling in his fingers, caught up from some unseen crevice. He kept finding long strands of blonde hair _everywhere,_ even after all these years—in rugs, behind pillows, between floorboards. He kept them all too, lovesick fool that he was. He had a braid of them twined around the carcanet, hidden in his desk drawer.

His chest lifted and fell, living still. He threw an arm over his eyes, the single hair woven around his palm.

Inside the cave of his chest a wall broke, opening into a great, yawning chasm. The _injustice_ of it. The utter _gall._ His mouth twisted in a sneer. Typical of the Valar to ignore them this long, to just _let_ them send wave upon wave of people—yes, _people,_ each of them unique and important and _priceless—_ to _break_ themselves on the walls of Barad Dûr. Did Manwë watch, high upon his mountain fortress, as Ereinion died? Did he _laugh_ at the futility of it? And now, _Glorfindel—_ were the gods really that cruel, to pluck some hapless soul from Mandos and toss him over the water with a message designed to torment them, no further aid offered? When evil rose in might again, when Erestor and Elrond and everyone he loved spent themselves utterly in devotion to Sauron’s destruction, would they come then? Or would they merely send another messenger to tell them once more of the gods’ indifference?

Ai, it had been a long time since he felt such anger, such hatred, such… helplessness. What could _they_ do that _Ereinion_ could not? What weapon, what secret did they have that Ereinion did not? How could they _stand_ where he _fell_?

All his careful walls, his meticulous structures of happiness crumbled. Every step he had taken towards peace and contentment suddenly disappeared, useless. _They have the power to resurrect the dead and they have not given him back to me._ Despair rose in his heart, thick and viscous, suffocating him from the inside out. He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes, pressing, _pressing_ —

A knock sounded at the door. Elrond, most likely.

“Come in,” Erestor managed. He curled tighter on the coverlet, glancing over his arm to watch the door open.

A cloud of golden hair preceded its owner as Glorfindel ducked his head inside. “Hello? My Lord Erestor?”

Erestor sat up, a snarl waiting behind his lips. “Ah yes, the Valar’s pet. Come in.”

Glorfindel looked across the sitting room to where he sat on the bed. “I’ve come to give you the other half of my message, but if you’re going to be snippy then I’ll leave.”

Erestor sighed, anger gurgling out under the weight of gloom. “Come in, my Lord.” He heaved himself up off the bed and walked to the sitting rom, gesturing to the couch. “I don’t make any promises, but I will hear your message.”

Glorfindel entered, hesitant, and perched on the edge of the couch. Erestor slumped in a chair opposite him, a headache tugging at the strings behind his eyes.

Glorfindel watched him, his hands clasped before him and his brow furrowed. “Are you alright?” he asked, blue eyes piercing through him. “I’m so sorry if I brought you distress— I think I was so happy just to see someone I knew that I said my piece poorly.”

Erestor huffed a laugh despite himself. Glorfindel remained much as Erestor remembered him—gracious and kind to all, almost to a fault. “You did no such thing. You delivered it as artfully as may be done. Your news is grave enough on its own, never mind your delivery of it.”

Glorfindel examined him, his face full of open concern. “I came as quick as I could find you—though,” he winced. “Perhaps that was impudent of me. I did not expect to see you so upset—you were always very composed, when I knew you.”

Erestor nearly smiled at that, at Glorfindel trying so obviously to offer comfort even to an old, spiteful Fëanoryn like him. “I’m sure I should be comforting you, my Lord,” he said, his vitriol draining out of him. “It seems to me the Valar have not been kind to you, to give you no tale of your friends or homeland before sending you away on a mission whose context you knew nothing about.”

Glorfindel’s face crumpled a little, the first sign of inward turmoil. “Yes, well, at least I managed to find an old friend.” He looked to Erestor, a half-smile on his lips. “That does make things a little easier.”

Erestor chuckled. “I hope you don’t mean _me,_ ” he replied. “I was never very kind to you either—nor did my allegiance to my Lords waver in the face of their orders.” Ah yes, the kinslayings again.

Glorfindel pursed his lips, thinking, seemingly unperturbed by the mention of the massacres. “You were kind when it mattered,” he said, leaning over his knees and folding his hands. “Rog liked you, and that’s no mean feat, though maybe he wouldn’t have after what you did later.”

Ah yes, Rog. Lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, a House filled with ex-thralls, cripples, and other outcasts. Erestor remembered him well—his tall, brutal form, lean with muscle and woven with scars. Few save Turgon and his closest lords trusted him seeing as he himself was an ex-thrall, kept in slavery for many years in Angband. The fear than an ex-thrall might suddenly turn on his rescuers ran deep in the first age—there were some who even thought Maedhros would attack them in the end— but Rog had little sympathy for such folk. Any outcast, any ex-thrall no matter how suspicious, he would take into his own House and give his own colors, his own name. As for those arrogant enough to look down on him for doing so, he took delight in mirroring their hypocrisy back to them. _Rog_ itself was a kilmessi, a chosen-name meaning _demon—_ if they wanted to spurn him then they could go right ahead. _He_ knew Morgoth’s true face, not they. He often went bare-chested to court, his long auburn-dark hair knotted as thickly as the scars across his back, a reminder: _I survived. I am here. You cannot turn away from me. I will not be moved._ Erestor, still so very arrogant, didn’t think much of Turgon and his court but he _did_ like Rog, very much in fact. How could he not? Here was an elf with _conviction._

Erestor, when he heard of Gondolin’s fall, was not surprised to hear that Rog and his folk had slain _six_ balrogs ere they died.

Glorfindel’s mouth curved in a knowing smirk. “But something tells me I would be remiss in not discovering path your life took since those evil deeds. Elrond,” this said with a sidelong glance, “loves you very much indeed for someone who spent his childhood with his people’s murderers.”

Somewhere, Tar-Asmaa was dying all over again, choking on her cackling laughter. Erestor could feel it in his bones. “Ah, my Lord, you are too generous with me,” he replied, wry. “Elrond would love a slimy toad given the opportunity.”

Glorfindel chuckled, hiding his grin behind his hand. “Perhaps. I look forward to knowing him better then, if that is true. But it seems to me that _you_ love _him_ very much as well, and that is a bit of a surprise for me.”

Erestor gave him a long look. “Anyone would love Elrond, given the opportunity. Even a slimy toad.”

Glorfindel only hummed in reply, something of a knowing tilt in his chin.

“Tell me,” Erestor said, turning the conversation. “What is the other half of your message?”

Glorfindel’s countenance grew stern. “Simply this: I am not sent alone in this endeavor—five maia have taken on flesh and now join me, including Curunír and Olórin, whom you no doubt remember.”

Erestor blinked, shocked. “I do remember. Do they come now as Eönwë did, dressed in might and battle-raiment? If so, that does not seem very much like them.” Maia? Ai, the world was changing more than he knew.

“They do not,” Glorfindel replied. “Our mission is more of a secret one. None of the Istari, as they call themselves, could hope to take on Sauron, not even in their combined might—” this earned a snort from Erestor. _Manwë_ could take Sauron down, easily enough— “As Sauron is now, disembodied, he is weak but untouchable. Once he has gained the strength needed to rise once more it may be we will have an opportunity to strike, but at such a time he will have grown too powerful for our blows to do much. We must find another way.” The tactician’s light was up in his eyes now, glowing with determination.

Erestor closed his eyes. Weariness washed through him. Ai, was this how his life must be, forever pushing grief and despair away for a few brief moments, only for it to creep back in like the tide? He pressed his hand against his mouth, remembering.

_The body slipped into the grave as if it was nothing, as if it was an everyday occurrence to watch you lover lie still in the ground. The sheets around him were old, tattered things, stripped from the medical beds—he wouldn’t have wanted much of a fuss about it. Under the sheets, Erestor knew, he wore an old formal robe, loose around the middle now that he had lost so much weight in the war. And, underneath that—skin. Pale, freckled, skin, smooth and soft— if Erestor tried hard enough he could almost imagine it, clean and unblemished, the vicious purple bruises and raw slashes mopped up as if with a rag, wiped away. He could almost imagine himself stepping down into the earth, peeling back all the layers to find Ereinion, sleeping, or pretending to sleep, his skin warm and alive. If he kept imagining that, just kept it in front of his eyes, it might come true._

“Did you lose someone?” Glorfindel’s gentle voice yanked him back to the present.

Erestor opened his eyes. Across from him Glorfindel leaned over his knees, face wrinkled with concern and… yes, grief. Something deep, and dark, and pained—something overturned and weeping inside that golden exterior. Something about Glorfindel’s question resonated in him— looking at him was like looking in a mirror.

“Tell me, Glorfindel,” Erestor said quietly. “When you were dead, did you feel the passage of time? Or when you awoke from the grave did it seem as one night’s sleep, the Fall of Gondolin only a few short hours passed?”

Tears sprang to Glorfindel’s eyes and he looked away, blinking furiously.

Erestor had his answer. Glorfindel’s jaw clenched, his throat bobbed in a swallow. His hands—calloused already, he must have been born anew with them— turned a bloodless white as he gripped the hem of his tunic. Erestor felt a sudden kinship with him, a line snapping taut between a ship and its anchor.

Erestor stood, slowly, his joints creaking, and turned to his desk. There, inside a small drawer, lay the carcanet, and around it his tiny braid of precious scavenged hairs. He gave the braid one fond caress and tucked the single hair, still twined around his fingers, around it. The necklace he lifted out of the drawer and cradled in his hands, his fingers leaving faint prints on the gleaming surface.

“Do you know what this is?” he turned and sat next to Glorfindel on the couch, holding it out.

Glorfindel, his eyes still red-rimmed, looked down with confusion at the carcanet. “That… that belonged to Finrod, before he wore the Nauglamír. It was a gift from his father. How is it that you came into possession of it?” He looked up to Erestor, unsure.

Erestor ran a thumb over the spiraling sliver-work. Swans, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, soared above foaming waves curling over opals and sapphires glinting like stars. “Finrod, upon receiving the Nauglamír but not wishing to see his father’s gift put away, gave it to his younger brother, Angrod. He then gave it to his son, Orodreth, who gave it to his son, Gil-galad,” oh, saying his _name—_ Erestor’s voice wavered with the taste of it on his tongue— “Who gave it to me.”

Glorfindel reached out, brushed a finger along one of the inlaid jewels. It winked at him, flashing. “Círdan told me of him, in passing,” he said, his voice low.

Erestor nodded. “Then you will know that he ruled as High King from the time Turgon fell till the time Sauron slew him—a little more than a hundred years ago, now. What you would not know is—” he paused, eyes pricking hot and dry. “Is that he was a _good_ King, who loved his people more than any King of the Ñoldor ever did, and that he was as a brother to Elrond, closer than his heart’s blood, and… and that I loved him, and we were going to be married, or, I thought we might, or we could have, if things had been different.” He coughed, somewhere between a laugh and a dry sob. “So you see, it was a little cruel of the Valar to tell you nothing—to send you unwitting to tell us that his death was in vain.”

Glorfindel nodded, understanding.

For a few moments they sat there, their fingers brushing over the carcanet and leaving smears of finger-oil along its gleaming surface.

“I had someone too,” Glorfindel said at last. His voice swung low as rustling leaves, as quiet as the receding tide. “I like to think we would’ve married too, had such an opportunity existed for two such as us.” He leaned against the back of the couch, his strong shoulders limp with weariness. He ran a hand over his mouth, his eyes wandering somewhere far away. “You know, we’d talk about it?” he chuckled, lips curling in self-deprecation. “Getting married. Two men getting married wasn’t something people did back then—though, from what you say, things are different now? Something your Gil-galad brought about? I don’t know that such an idea ever crossed Turgon’s mind—he was always rather traditional. But we’d talk about it, wondering what that might be like. He’d be my husband and I’d be his wife, or sometimes we’d switch, didn’t matter. We were married. Did you know we actually had a dress, an old thing, and sometimes I’d wear it for him? We’d pretend, this flimsy gown caught around my soldier’s shoulders. Or he’d wear it for me, but he could never fit it over his chest so he’d tie the arms into a skirt around his waist. And we’d call each other _my lord_ or _my lady_ but mostly _dearest husband, sweetest wife,_ or _my darling, my One_ and argue over who would wear the dress in the wedding ceremony, who would wear which flowers in their hair.” Tears gathered in his eyes, broke down his cheek. “Could you imagine it? _Rog,_ the Strong Arm of the Gondolindrim, with _my_ flowers in his hair?”

Erestor could. He could see it all.

Ai, he should’ve known. Erestor gave a wry smile to his old, clueless self. Ever did they orbit each other, Glorfindel and Rog, tuned to each other in a way they weren’t to others. With the key in hand Erestor could decipher their aspects— their keen awareness of themselves, each other, and _those around them,_ that final facet only alight in times of secrecy. Suddenly the tiny, tender touches—Glorfindel tucking Rog’s long braid safely away, Rog’s gnarled fingers gentle on the shell of Glorfindel’s ear as he whispered to him— made sense. Was it not Glorfindel who carefully adjusted the straps on Rog’s armor, Rog’s fingers too damaged from thralldom to do anything more delicate than hold a hammer? Was it not Rog who placed a light, gentle hand on Glorfindel’s back, the Golden Flower wilting under the strain of yet another war council?

And Rog fell, and his House with him. And now Glorfindel was alive, almost as if he had never died—and Erestor heard the echo of the great emptiness that had once consumed him, a gong in the distance, a reminder, and answering reverberation in the face before him.

Glorfindel swallowed. “You know, I don’t remember much about being dead. I remember darkness, and a strange sort of warmth, and I remember _him._ I remember falling asleep, or what felt like sleep, and feeling him next to me in the darkness. I could touch all those scars, the softness of his hair, the rhythm of his breathing. I could feel his lips kiss my brow, and then I drifted off, happy.” His hands rose to his face, the heels of his palms pressing to his temples. “And then they took me away. They shoved me in a body, _alone._ I don’t think I was ready for it, to be housed again.”

Erestor reached out and slowly pulled Glorfindel’s hands down, away, until they were clasped in his own. Glorfindel gripped him back tight, anchoring himself.

How very strange, to come to this— rubbing his fingers across Glorfindel’s knuckles. What happened to the old Fëanoryn, to the hands that lifted a blade against his kin without a thought? The elf that Glorfindel first knew would be… disappointed in him, maybe, or confused. _Jealous,_ perhaps.

“I am so sorry, Glorfindel,” he said, not knowing how to say _I understand_.

Glorfindel released him long enough to wipe at his face, a smile breaking through despite everything. “I’m going to go back, you know,” he said, taking Erestor’s hand again. “Once my errand is complete. It was the first thing I decided, after I woke. I’m going to go back, and I’m going to find him. If I can be reborn, can’t he? Can’t anyone who wishes to do so?”

Erestor’s heart froze, dowsed cold with realization, then broke into a sprint. _Oh._

“ _Take me with you_ —” he gasped, the words tumbling out in a waterfall rush. “If you can find him, then maybe I—”

“Yes,” Glorfindel grinned, full and sweet now. “Yes, _of course._ ”

Hope struck through him like teeth through bone, so painful he couldn’t breathe. He frowned, or smiled, he couldn’t tell which—his chest clenched like vines ran through it, and branches with leaves, their roots finding every vulnerable crack within him and tearing him apart.

And in a world where the dead stayed dead and only reappeared in his dreams, the peace Erestor had scraped out for himself was enough. But in a world where the dead _rose again_ — _oh—_ he knew, he _knew,_ that he would _find him_ or _die trying_. And if this hope proved false? If the dead couldn’t rise again, or, worse still, if they wouldn’t _let_ Erestor near him—wouldn’t let a kinslayer partake in the miracles of Aman—Well. It wouldn’t be the first time a Ñoldo pitched a fit at the gods.

“Oh,” he said, feeling his face drain of blood. “Oh, do you really think— that we—we could?” And it sounded so silly like that, with his voice fluttering light as snowfall and his eyes open wide, like a child’s.

Glorfindel laughed, cut a little with a manic lilt. “I suppose we’ll try! By the gods, Erestor, I never thought to see you like this—you’ll have to tell me all that happened to you since we last saw each other.”

“Like _what,”_ Erestor narrowed his eyes.

“Like _this,”_ he pulled one hand out of Erestor’s grasp to gesture at him. “Look at you, you’re holding my hand!”

Erestor let go and folded his hands in his sleeves. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sniffed.

“Come now,” Glorfindel clapped him on the back—actually _clapped him on the back,_ the fool. “We have much work to do together, and it won’t do for you to be so standoffish.” But then he reached into Erestor’s sleeves and held his hands again, and his skin was warm. “We’ll finish his work. We will.”

 _His_ work. Yes. Erestor relented. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, sighing.

Oh, the world had _changed,_ and him with it. Maybe miracles were possible. Maybe.

He held his breath and _hoped._


	20. Burn

Erestor stood still as a stone on the balcony overlooking the road Imladris, waiting, _seething_.

Glorfindel stood at his side, his mouth set in a line as thin as the horizon. His hair, pulled back in a severe bun, did not so much as stir in the breeze, his whole being entirely still. His _fury,_ however, paced around them and snapped at the hems of their robes.

They’d come so far. They were _so close._ So many long years, inching towards an answer. So many _thousands of years,_ and now—

Now they would have to wait.

 ~*~

After Glorfindel arrived it seemed all their questions had been answered, all their solutions ready-made to be carried out. Their council—Glorfindel and the rest of the Istari included— rushed forward swift and flush as the Bruinen, bringing much-needed news and intelligence of Sauron and his designs, knowledge of how he had survived Isildur’s blow. Still, Elrond required they meet in secret, asking for only Galadriel’s help outside their own borders. Sauron rested, weak, but his spies never slept, crawling tirelessly over the earth in their efforts to bring anything that might help their Lord—news, aid, and, of course,

The _Ring._

That beautiful, wretched thing, that seemingly useless trinket Isildur claimed as weregild after Elendil’s death. Nothing important.

Ai, they had been blind, or, rather, they had been _blinded._

Curunír spared nothing in his descriptions of what, exactly, the Ring was, how it functioned, what powers could stand against it—but Erestor gleaned only two very important things to remember. One: while the Ring still existed Sauron could not die and two: it had a _Will._ It desired to return to its master and to glut itself on the subjugation of others. It commanded other, lesser rings, the likes of which created monsters of their bearers. The Úlairi—or, as Curunír put it, the Nazgûl or _Ring-Wraiths_ —were such monsters, men whom Sauron seduced and then twisted under the awful Will of his Ring. Dwarves too he had tried and failed to subjugate, though the effect of his twisting magic would no doubt still be felt among their people.

As for Elves, well.

It seemed the Elves had Celebrimbor to thank for the fact that Middle Earth was not a continent of thralls, or worse. Erestor’s heart swelled to think of him, to remember. He and Maglor had known of Celebrimbor’s ring-craft, yes, and of Annatar his friend and colleague. But Celebrimbor had told none of his secret elven-rings—his last hopes, the circles of his arms protecting their people—not even when Annatar betrayed him and tortured him for knowledge of their locations.

They lived because Celebrimbor died, and with him their secrets.

As for the elven-rings themselves, Sauron no doubt still lusted after them with a cold, endless hunger.

Oh, that _bastard._

Erestor was, of course, speaking of Ereinion.

Ereinion had never _told him_ the secret of those two inconspicuous rings, the two that never left his hand. And Erestor, too obsessed with that entrancing carcanet—and the swathes of blushing skin beneath,— never thought to ask.

 _You didn’t know?_ Elrond asked, twisting Vilya on his finger. _I thought he told you._

Olórin—who still hadn’t stopped laughing, Manwë’s Tits Erestor, how did you ever pull _that_ off, wait till I tell Finarfin— only sighed out a plume of pipe-smoke. _Who can say why he did or did not tell you? They were birthed in Celebrimbor’s torment—perhaps he did not want to remind you. Or perhaps he wanted to protect you._ His own fingers found Narya and he gave a tilted smile. _The King strikes me as the sort of person to understate his own burdens, and these rings are a heavy weight to carry._

Olórin was entirely too much of a gossip but something in his words gave Erestor pause. _A weight?_

 _Yes._ Elrond looked to his hand, the sapphire stone sparking in blue brilliance. _I can feel a weight about my shoulders, pressing down. I feel… harnessed. Yoked to a work I must finish. Heavy, yes, almost beyond bearing, but heavy like a plow furrowing the earth._ A laugh huffed its way past his mouth. _And he carried two of them._

And that somehow made Erestor blaze with fury and… made him want to swoon, a little bit _._ Oh, the endless wells of strength housed in that body, the depths Erestor never plumbed and to think, Ereinion’s fingers both strong enough to carry the weight of all that power and gentle enough to caress through Erestor’s hair, light as air—

Would Erestor ever stop falling in love with him?

Olórin gave him a knowing look and tapped the side of his nose, smoke wreathing about his head. Erestor scowled.

And then they had the _key_ to it all, the key that would unlock the secret of _killing Sauron,_ once and for all—if they could find the damned thing, that is. Isildur— _oh, that sweet boy, oh no—_ was long dead, the Ring long lost.

Galadriel despaired of ever finding it, and while Olórin held out hope it was Elrond who brought down true devastation on the matter. _And if we find it, what then? None of us could stand against such tyranny, such sweet malice. Perhaps Celebrimbor could have—but no. It would destroy any of us, should it come into our hands. It is not that I_ will not _touch it, but that I_ could not _touch it and not come to ruin. None of our number, none that I know, could even carry it to Ulmo in the sea, much less to Mordor to be destroyed. What then? Perhaps it is better it is lost— at least He won’t have it._

The night after that particular meeting Glorfindel found Erestor snarling and raging and weeping once more and, without a word, threw him over his shoulder and, kicking and screaming, dunked him in the Bruinen.

 _We will find a way._ His face was stone as Erestor spluttered up at him. _We will not fail._

And Erestor believed him because he had to believe him, because not believing him meant death.

 _Forgiveness_ , however— forgiveness was another thing when one stood soaking in half-frozen water. Erestor _did_ forgive him, but not until he had yanked Glorfindel in the frigid pool with him. Glorfindel didn’t take being yanked anywhere well, and it was some time before he was satisfied with his revenge. By that time they were used to the water, and found themselves loath to leave the pool and each other’s comforting company just yet.

The water shivered cool along his spine as they lingered, drifting through the crystalline beauty around them. Glorfindel had tossed him in one of the deeper pools on the edges of Imladris, one fed by tiny tributary waterfalls and filled with huge, smooth stones tinted pink like pearls. It shone clear and open like the interior of a diamond, like an impenetrable space where only moonlight existed. Erestor’s earlier anger and sorrow left him, siphoned away in the water.

As he and Glorfindel swam in the glittering water, soaked robes stripped away and piled on the bank, Erestor had the feeling that this was exactly the sort of future Ereinion had wanted for him. Swimming at midnight with a beautiful young thing, someone wise and good. Erestor huffed a laugh. Someone _blonde,_ perhaps? Erestor glanced over to Glorfindel, who leaned, arms crossed, over a far boulder. His eyes were closed, his face smooth with some far-away memory. Ah, they were of like minds tonight.

It was a night for forgiveness so Erestor forgave Ereinion for ever suggesting he find another love. Swimming in the quiet with a friend, Erestor could understand Ereinion’s hope that his lover would live to find such peace and beauty again, even if it were far from himself. Erestor would still have to forgive Ereinion the torment he must have put himself through in denying his own hope, but Erestor would do that later. After. After he found him and kissed him and fucked any last doubts over the constancy of Erestor’s love out of him.

Erestor thought about Ereinion as if he were alive, nowadays. Or, more accurately, he hoped so viciously that sometimes he almost believed it could be true. He and Elrond cried about it, sometimes, but more and more often they laughed about it, giddy to the point of mania. Elrond would make some teasing remark about planning for a Royal Wedding and Erestor, unable to help himself, would give a shy smile over his shoulder instead of a scowl. Or Erestor would remark on how well Celebrían and Ereinion _will_ get along, instead of _would have,_ and Elrond would press both palms to his face and stare into some shining future, so hopeful it made Erestor want to break in two. On those days it felt like all they had to do was keep moving forward, keep living their lives and eventually, given enough time, they would make it. It felt like an inevitability, like fate.

Erestor kept that thought with him, let it warm him as the world slipped back into cold darkness.

After the Last Alliance, Arnor waxed in strength but Lindon dwindled. Círdan ruled in Mithlond and Elrond in Imladris, but neither could be rightfully called a King, merely a Lord. Ai, Ereinion, the greatest and the last—perhaps if he had lived the elves of Middle Earth could have prospered and swelled into the fullness of their heritage, but his death signaled an autumn-time among them, the beginning of the end. Their days in Middle Earth were numbered—if not by Sauron then by their own weariness.

And they were very, very weary.

Erestor hadn’t been back to Ereinion’s palace in Mithlond since they left. From what he heard it had been used for a little while as a House of Healing, but was now abandoned and falling into ruin.

He mentioned this, voice halting and tight, after Glorfindel invited Erestor to go with him to see Círdan. _So you see, I’d rather not go back._ Glorfindel fell silent for a moment, and then he reached out his hand. Erestor let him hold him for a little while, too upset to fight. Besides, didn’t Glorfindel have ruined palaces of his own? Only, Glorfindel could not visit Gondolin, even if he so wished. Erestor wondered if there would ever come a day where Mithlond too would sink beneath the waves, if even the possibility of return would be taken from him.

Evil returned to haunt their doorstep. First the Orcs, spotted along their southern border. Then the goblins, back in the Misty Mountains, slowly subsumed any territory in which they could keep their claws. Sauron breathed out his first breaths over the land.

Men and Elves fled the region before they were massacred, Orcish raids increasing even up to the threshold of Vilya’s reach. Many sought refuge in Arnor’s larger cities, or closer to the coast where Lindon’s strength could still be felt—or they came to Imladris, too weak or wounded to go futher. Refugees poured into the bowl of their little valley, despair greater than words writ large on their faces. _Wasn’t this supposed to be all over? Did we spend so much blood, only to fall now?_

All the while they had nothing to go on, no way to fight back other than riding out and _fighting back,_ but what use were honest blades against an enemy they could neither see nor touch?

Oh, but he could _see them,_ all right. The Great Eye cracked open and turned its gaze upon Lindon, upon the Kingdom that had given it so much grief. Vilya did some work in obscuring its view, but Erestor knew Elrond could feel the pressure of it beating at his temples. Erestor hadn’t initially noticed, seeing as Elrond wasn’t getting much sleep anyway what with his new _daughter—_ and wasn’t she a shower of blessings unlooked-for, beloved Arwen Undómiel— but when he did notice he forwent the scolding in favor of taking over her naps, sending her exhausted parents away for some much-needed rest and alone time. Erestor kept her close while he worked, tucked under his outer robe next to the warmth of his heart. A steady paranoia built in him whenever she fell asleep on his chest—oh, he knew well the hatred the Eye bore for the Sons of Eärendil, would bear further for the Twilight Star he held close. Those were the days when the possibility of seeing Ereinion again seemed desperately far away, when Erestor felt he would be very lucky to keep Elrond and Celebrían and the twins and Arwen safe from harm.

The two Blue Wizards disappeared somewhere down south, or east, or maybe they hadn’t gone anywhere at all, maybe there was just nothing left of their bodies to find. Olórin was the one to bring them the news, the news that not only could he not find them but he couldn’t _feel_ them—his siblings, there in his mind from before the creation of the earth, just… gone, and no news from Manwë to comfort him either.

That was half a week before Glorfindel returned from a patrol with a quarter of the members he had set out with, blood in his teeth as he spit, _They’ve returned. All nine of them. They caught us unawares. Won’t happen again._

When they recovered the dead scouts their naked bodies were covered in a myriad of brands and cuts outlining a thousand lidless eyes—and Erestor gulped back memories, caught up in an undertow, the past dragging him back to re-live all his accumulated horrors again and again and _oh_ —who would he lose this time? Would it be Elrond he found broken on the battlefield at the end, and then, once the cycle began again, Celebrían? Or would it be Elrohir and Elladan who fell, twisted together in a mess of broken bones next to their sister—

The nightmares returned to Erestor’s bed, haunting the eaves. And this time—seeing as Elrond’s bed was occupied—Erestor went to Glorfindel, who inevitably suffered the same.

 _What is it tonight?_ Glorfindel asked, sitting on the windowsill with the windows thrown open to clear the air. His great mass of golden hair tangled in thick knots around his head, his shift damp with sweat.

Erestor huffed and came to sit next to him, their knees knocking together. _My dreams wonder how Elrond will look when I find him on the field, how his cold body will feel in my arms. You?_

 _Maeglin,_ he replied, wistful. _He comes begging for my forgiveness, only, his mouth is full of blood._

Erestor fell asleep sprawled out over Glorfindel’s rugs, the two of them curled close to the hearth. As his heavy eyes drifted closed he thought he could hear Tar-Asmaa chuckling, or sighing, somewhere over his shoulder. He wondered if Elrond ever heard such susurrations from his brother, or if Erestor had grown too old and maudlin to trust his ears anymore. At any rate the nightmares stayed, even with Glorfindel’s soft, heavy body on the rug next to him.

The Úlairi set to work with a relish. The greatest of the Nine, the Witch-King, set his kingdom in the north and called it Angmar, his iron home, and set about bringing the peoples of Middle Earth to heel.

The second age cycled back to start all over again.

Their lives became a series of bloody battles fought to the utmost of their strength, won only by the barest slivers of luck—and yet, for every battle they won, there were scores they lost, leagues of ground devoured under the Úlairi’s thrall. The Witch-King took Rhudaur, the northernmost Kingdom of Arnor and Imladris’ immediate neighbor, with particular delight. Only then, with Rhudaur under a puppet-king and Annúminas choked full with refugees and ex-thralls and spies, did Erestor begin to understand what it must have been like to live in Mordor—to watch helpless as every lovely thing died and turned to ash. Elrond, confined to Imladris with Vilya, wept to see Númenor destroyed all over again, his beloved brother’s people once more under siege from within and without. More wounding still was the treachery against him in the heart of his kin, the distrust in many Mannish eyes when they looked upon the Elven Lord of Imladris. Those who remembered him as their Father’s-Brother dwindled, and while they kept their alliances there were no more great friendships, no Elendil and Ereinion to twine their terrible wills against the evil before them. The Witch-King, apparently, had the leisure both to wage war and indulge in a few particular cruelties. The rest of Arnor, already unstable from infighting splintering their strength, wavered, then slowly crumbled—and Elrond received hundreds of little lacquered boxes filled with hair.

Erestor knew how much the Witch-King lusted after Elrond’s blood, how much he desired to take him like his Master had taken Celebrimbor. The thought made him freeze in terror— _no. Not that. Never that, no._ One night after Glorfindel had returned from an extended patrol Erestor yanked him into a secluded alcove, away from the pressing noise of people. _Listen to me,_ he hissed. _Elrond will not leave Imladris even if the Witch-King himself crosses the bridge over the Bruinen, which is a real possibility at the present moment. So if—_ when— _such a thing occurs you will take him and Celebrían and the children to Círdan, and you will let me stay behind to protect your passage. Do we have an understanding?_ And Glorfindel, who almost always fought him on such things, nodded.

News from Khazad Dûm dwindled, then, abruptly, stopped. Elrond sent scouts to inquire after their old allies, but the ancient Dwarven doors—forged in friendship with Celebrimbor and the elves of Eregion— were few to be found and fewer still to be opened. Those that did led only to darkness so thick that no Elf would enter, and when the scouts pressed their ears to the stone of the mountain there were no sounds to be heard from inside save a low, churning roar.

And so they dwindled.

The rest of Arnor fell, and by the time Eärnur came up from Gondor with his multitudes of armies to sweep up the whole of the land and throw down Angmar it was too late. The Witch-King fled but he left evil spirits in the ground, in the bones of the dead, and they poisoned the earth so there would never be a Kingdom of Men in the North again. Eärnur might have won, but there was no room in Erestor’s heart to accept the victory. He’d lived this before. All he could see when he looked over the wilds of what had once been Arnor were the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil, the arrows still piercing Celebrimbor’s body leaving sharp, bloody slashes in Maglor’s chest and arms as he held him. Arnor became a haven for wolves and owls, a desolation. A graveyard.

And Erestor thought that was the worst of it—Arnor falling, the world burnt around them—but he was _wrong,_ oh, he was _so very wrong_ —

They’d had a few snatched years of peace, a little while to rest and relax and learn how to laugh again. Elrond sang more often and Erestor took that as his cue that it was safe to be happy again. The Dúnedain came to live with them in Imladris, and the sick, marshy grief in Elrond’s heart dried up. Glorfindel spent more time writing poetry than he did on the road, and more often than not Erestor found him in the Bruinen teaching the little Mannish and Elvish children how to swim. Erestor and Celebrían took to having their tea together, chatting about the children—not so little now, not with Elladan and Elrohir standing tall as young oaks and Arwen shining like sunlight between them— and with the taste of sweet tea on his tongue and the balm of Celebrían’s laughter he found himself willing to believe in a world Sauron could no longer touch. It was there, just over the horizon, just a short sun-dappled walk away.

They were _safe,_ they were _happy—_

And then—

And _then—_

And then Celebrían _disappeared._

It was only a visit, a simple visit to her parents in Lothlorien—only, the letter saying she’d arrived was late, which wasn’t bad, necessarily, just unusual—

And then a crippled, half-mad member of her guard crawled into Vilya’s sight and choked out that _they had her_ before collapsing in Glorfindel’s arms and _oh—_ Glorfindel and the twins and the whole of the Dúnedain surged up out of the valley in a wave of swords and spears and anger and _dread_ and then there was no word for _months._

Erestor sat with Elrond every night and held his hand as he stared, dull-eyed, into some reality Erestor couldn’t see. His hair hung lank around his shoulders, his hands still but for the low thrumming shuddering up from Vilya. He’d gone somewhere deep inside, reaching with Vilya into the hidden parts of the earth with all his strength.

It wasn’t enough.

When he finally collapsed Erestor was there to keep him from hitting the floor, to tuck him in bed for a few stolen hours before he woke and began all over again. Then Erestor went to the overlook above the bridge into Imladris where Arwen sat slumped against the stone, watching. He picked her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing and tucked her in bed next to her father, and then he returned to his office to break things.

They found her alive, but it was too late— _damn them,_ damn all the gods, damn them for _abandoning them_ to this endless cycle and _oh—_ it was her turn, it was going to take her now, take _Celebrían—_

Erestor walked into the healing rooms to find Elrond standing alone in the middle of them, his mouth trembling and his smock covered in sticky purple blood and flurries of silver hair and the sight of it punched through him in one vicious blow and he couldn’t— Elrond took one shuddering step forward and Erestor caught him, muffled Elrond's screams in his robes— and then later Glorfindel found _him_ and it was _his turn_ to scream into the crook of Glorfindel’s neck—

She lived. That was all Erestor could say for her—she lived. She sailed into the West a fortnight after, swaddled in layers of bandages and smelling of the sharp, unyielding scent of athelas. It was the only way and the thought of it _ruined_ him.

Elrond left Glorfindel with Vilya and didn’t let go of his wife the whole journey to the Havens, the two of them curled up with Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen in the back of their carriage. All five of them slept most of the way, brutally tired and viciously relieved and full of an aching, grieving, desperation. Erestor rode next to them and spent the whole way silencing the low wail in his throat.

They saw her off on a flat grey morning with the gulls shrieking in the harbor. Erestor could hardly bear it, watching her hobble along the docks a few inches at a time. His fingernails dug blood out of his palms.

Elrond curled his arm carefully around her waist and Elrohir held her hand, Elladan and Arwen huddled close enough to touch as they made their way to the ship. Erestor followed a few steps behind, silent. He had a wretched, helpless thought then, a thought he hadn’t had in a very long time. It wasn’t _fair._ Nothing had been fair, not for a long time, but somehow it _hurt_ more, watching the way Celebrían’s shorn hair trembled in the breeze.

And then Celebrían—oh, she shone like a simaril in Erestor’s heart, even now— turned to him and Elrond and said, _I’ll let him know, if I see him. I’ll let him know that you both love him and that you miss him. Rog too, tell Glorfindel that._

And Erestor gaped at her, shocked, until his vision blurred with tears and he buried his face in his hands.

 ~*~

That had been nearly five hundred years ago, now.

Erestor clenched his hand over the pommel over his sword, nearly never gone from his side these days. Elrond hated to see him with it but knew, understood without saying—the sword was for his sake as much as it was for Erestor’s, a symbol of searching, of readiness—of _vengeance._ And there was a part of Erestor that hated wearing it, hated it for Elrond’s sake, but at just this moment he was disinclined to feel generous towards his _infuriating_ Lord.

The solution lay in their hands, ready for them to close their fingers over and _take it._

_They had the Ring._

Erestor had halfway been expecting something—the Last Alliance had formed around the year 3000, and, with the Second and Third Ages mirroring each other more often than not, Erestor remained wary as he watched the year T.A. 3000 come and then pass. It was now the year 3018 and he was so tightly wound that when Olórin arrived with the news he nearly sprung into a thousand whirling pieces like a broken clock.

He’d been expecting something _but not like this_ , not with the key to Sauron’s demise within reach. Little Bilbo, that clever scoundrel, he’d _found_ it and then _kept_ it and _then—_ more astonishing than Eönwë’s thunderclap dive, than a simaril’s starfire blaze, than anything Erestor had yet seen on this earth— _he’d given it away._ He gave away his little magic ring— the one that he’d used to _avoid the neighbors,_ oh, what a gleeful, delicious thought, Sauron’s immense tyranny bent to the will of a Hobbit who wanted nothing more than to nap in peace—so he could have his comfortable retirement with the elves. That might’ve been the end of the story, even—the Ring passed down from generation to generation until it found someone malicious enough to catch the Witch-King’s eye— save that Olórin’s sharp nose had ferreted out the truth. Then it was all flurry and fire and fear and betrayal and, against all odds, _success—_ the four brave Hobbits delivered to Imladris safe if not unscathed and the Ring itself—

The Ring itself in their custody.

Erestor could have crowed for joy, or fear, he knew not which—he knew nothing save that the life of their direst enemy now lay in their hands, ready for _justice—_ only, what to do now?

It was not a question they could answer on their own. The Council of Elrond summoned all whom Elrond trusted to Imladris save Galadriel, who by now could not leave her beloved Lothlorien without opening it up to the Enemy. Elves and Men and Dwarves, all together again to answer one question:

Now that they _had_ the Ring, what were they going to _do_ with it?

Going to Mount Doom to destroy it was out of the question. Sauron, now revealed, lay curled in Barad-Dûr while he gained his strength. Though he was weak, it would be no trouble at all to take down an army to regain his precious Ring—an army divided by the poison of the Ring even more so. Glorfindel suggested that they throw it into the sea, but Erestor knew enough of the sea’s power against Sauron to know that while it was a balm to thralls, it would not be powerful enough to break the Ring, nor keep it for long. Erestor thought perhaps Tom Bombadil might be a good enough keeper—if the ring could not harm him, perhaps he could hold it for now—but Olórin, eyes rolling, had rightfully pointed out the folly of that idea. The council dragged on and with each passing second Erestor felt the knot in his throat rise, the panic in his chest threatening to spill out at a moment’s notice.

They were _so close._ To fail now, with everything within their reach—

In the end all the merely mostly impossible ideas proved untenable, and the completely impossible idea the only way forward.

They would take the Ring to Mordor, by stealth rather than by force, and unmake it in the fires of Mount Doom.

And Elrond wasn’t going to let Erestor _help._

Erestor and Glorfindel were to remain here, in Imladris, and let little Frodo bear the burden of the Ring to Mordor. Companions he would have, yes, but among them only Olórin could be said to have any sort of power, any sort of skill to ward off the enemy, and even he knew he would not be able to withstand a single blow of Sauron’s might. Estel was a warrior, yes, but he was primarily a healer, and while Legolas might be the best archer in Middle Earth since Beleg Cúthalion he was young, and untested in war. Gimli and Boromir were unknown to Erestor, and while he didn’t doubt the steadfastness in their hearts he very much doubted that they fully understood the matter, and that once pressed they would not crumble beneath the weight of Sauron’s glare. As for the Hobbits, well— anger rose in his throat. These Hobbits might yet have untapped wells of strength, but if they did Erestor doubted it would suffice.

How could Elrond send these— these _children_ to their deaths, without so much as even a gesture of protection? How could he expect them to stand up under the weight of it, the relentless weight of Sauron’s tyrannical seduction? Not only were they going to _die,_ but they would die _broken—_ their fair faces twisted and sucked of life like that piteous Gollum creature, eaten from the inside-out like a worm-riddled apple—

_How dare—_

Erestor could hear the lingering Dwarvish voices down the hall, Glóin’s worried rumble coming up against Gimli’s smooth, unyielding tones. Glorfindel spared a glance over his shoulder towards the sound, a brief quirk in his mouth. Well, at least they weren’t the only ones displeased with the state of things around here.

Glóin’s voice rose before being shushed, the sound of it like great trees groaning in the wind. If Erestor tried he could almost hear a similar sound from deeper inside Imladris: Legolas’ retinue begging him to reconsider. It was lucky for him that Thranduil remained in the Greenwood—Erestor doubted a hundred Dwarves could have drowned out the sound of Thranduil’s desperate, angry, fear.

Glorfindel shifted beside him, his mouth twitching as he chewed the inside of his cheek. Overhead the swallows dipped in the cloudy sky, grasping at a last few moments of air before the clouds broke into rain. The air tasted of the tang of thunder, rolling somewhere over the mountains, and of the sweet musky scent of Olórin’s pipe. Autumn was drawing to a close and soon it would be the time of fading, that in-between time when everything exhaled its last breath and laid down for winter. Everything felt weighted down, the air and his clothes already thick with moisture even before the storm—oppressive, like the Eye had finally peeled back Vilya’s protective film and was now staring at them with a singular, brutal intensity.

Erestor could feel Glorfindel stacking out the merits of disobedience against the consequences like coins in his mind, little _click-clink_ sounds almost echoing through the hall. “Do you suppose, Erestor,” he said, carefully nonchalant, “Elrond would be terribly angry if we simply followed them, say, a few miles back?”

“Yes he would,” a voice answered from behind them. Erestor turned to see Elrond padding up to them, his hands clasped before him. He came to stand between the two of them, the lines beneath his eyes lifted at little in a slight smile. “For how shall I go on without my two most trusted advisors?”

“Quite easily, I’m sure,” Glorfindel drawled, a half-second before Erestor could say the same. Erestor allowed himself a small smile to himself—he’d taught Glorfindel well, it seemed.

Elrond’s smile fluttered, threatening to widen before he looked down and hid it in the shadow of his hair. “I can assure you, my Captain, that you are entirely wrong.”

“If you say so,” Glorfindel acquiesced, his teasing quickly spent under the weight of his concern and sorrow.

Elrond looked to the two of them, his mouth falling to a thin line. His gaze rested finally on Erestor, his amber eyes searching. Erestor tilted his chin up at him, defiant, maybe—maybe childish. Maybe a last vestige of false pride to shore up his anger.

Elrond narrowed his eyes, a brief flicker. “Leave us for a little while, Captain? If you would be so kind.”

Glorfindel bowed, silent, and left.

When Erestor could no longer hear Glorfindel’s footsteps he snapped his gaze to Elrond, teeth bared. “And _why_ are you keeping me here? If anyone should go it should be _me,_ ” he snarled. “After _everything,_ Elrond?!” After _everything—_ everything he’d lived through, everything he’d _lost—_ _he_ should take the Ring to Mordor, _finish Ereinion’s work_ —the words rose hot in his throat, cracking— “It is my _right,_ Elrond,” he panted. “ _Mine._ ”

He spit the words out like venom and—and he wanted to see Elrond flinch, wanted to see him shudder, wanted him to feel the hot brand of Erestor’s anger the same way he felt it, burning him, encircling his throat with flame—

And Elrond reached out his cool, soft hands and laid them on Erestor’s flushed cheeks. “And what, do you think, would the Ring promise you?” he said, bringing Erestor close enough that their chests brushed.

Erestor looked to him, anguished. “What do you mean?” he said, some part of him already knowing the answer.

“It speaks to you. Saruman told us that much. Promises you whatever you may desire, so long as you submit to it. Do you know what it would promise you?” Elrond whispered, low. “I do.” His thumbs brushed lightly under Erestor’s eyes. “It would begin slow—just suggestions, at first. It’s powerful enough to keep me safe, you know. I wouldn’t even need Vilya if you were here, with the Ring. You could’ve kept Celebrían safe, if only you had had it then—now you could keep me and my children and Glorfindel safe and still have oceans of power to spare. Think of it, all of Middle Earth safe, happy, at _peace_. You could banish the Barrow-Wights from the North, restore Arnor to me and my kin, cleanse Mordor and Harad and uplift their people again—and then who’s to say you couldn’t reach Aman, couldn’t bring my wife back home? What doors would remain closed to you?”

Erestor trembled under Elrond’s palms, his hands drifting up to clutch them close to his face. A great heat filled his belly, the heat of swallowing a truth you already knew but didn’t want to hear—

Elrond continued, relentless. “And then, lastly of all—the Ring would offer _him_ back to you. Would send you dreams to sweeten your tongue—Ereinion sprawled out in your bed, flowers in his hair, no longer a King but simply your lover, your _husband,_ free from all restraints—”

“ _Elrond—_ ” Erestor shook, closing his eyes.

“How would _he_ feel, Erestor, going to your marriage bed only to see that you’d exchanged your beloved opal ring for one of gold? And how would _you_ feel, seeing the love of your long life laid out before you like an offering, at the same time knowing that if you could not subjugate him to your will then you would destroy him? Because that’s what it would demand of you in turn, Erestor. Everything you ever wanted, but only if you—and everyone you love—submit.” Elrond was being harsh, Erestor knew, perhaps harsher than he had ever been before—and it was all the truth, the plain, bald truth of it, inescapable and inexorable and—

“You would not last three steps outside Imladris, Erestor.” Elrond tilted his head down and kissed his brow. “Not with what you carry inside you. You are too old, too wounded. It would _ruin_ you. And I love you too much to put you in its path.”

Erestor let loose a breath, ragged, tears already falling down his face.

“Stay with me,” Elrond murmured against the skin of his brow. “I am in enough agony at sending Estel away, never mind at sending these beloved children to what will most certainly be the doom of us all. Stay with me. I don’t know how I could bear it, without you.” His voice wavered, then drifted into silence.

Erestor clasped Elrond tightly to his chest, hardly daring to breathe. Elrond was crying too, he realized, feeling the hot tears run down his neck from where Elrond pressed his eyes into the crook of his shoulder.

“You’re right,” Erestor managed. “Of course you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Elrond shuddered. “Don’t be—there is no guilt in knowing your own limits. But thank you anyway, Erestor. I know it is a sacrifice for you.”

Erestor buried his nose in the warmth of Elrond’s shoulder. “Not so much, no,” he said, feeling some internal sickness siphon out of him. It wasn’t a hardship, after all. Not when Elrond needed him so. “Besides, if he were here, he’d order me to stay by your side anyway.”

Elrond chucked. “He would. Come,” he pulled away, straightening his robes and rubbing his eyes. “I want you to scold Estel before he leaves while I reprimand my daughter for ever loving such a foolish mortal.”

Erestor smiled then, relaxing. “Perhaps later. Something tells me it would not be wise to search them out just now.”

Elrond gave him a flat look. “Well then, we shall find Glorfindel, since it seems that I shall have to explain to him once more why it would be unwise to place the Witch King’s most hated enemy on a stealth mission—never mind that hair of his.”

They left the balcony with Elrond’s hand slipped into the crook of Erestor’s arm, a calming anchor. Erestor sighed as they walked, feeling the rightness of being at his Lord’s side even as he was sorry for being excluded from the fellowship. A small laugh rose in his throat—still too Fëanorian to be trusted around jewelry, even after all these years.

The swallows dipped under the eaves, escaping the first few drops of rain. Cool air rolled in like the tide, twilight swift on its heels. They would have a few hours of peace yet, before the Fellowship left, and Erestor suddenly felt a great need to fill them with as much light as he could muster. Perhaps he would find Glorfindel and go swimming. Perhaps he could persuade Estel and Arwen and the twins to join them, let them frolic like children for a little longer.

Ai, but they were hardly children anymore, were they? And there was hardly any light left to scrape together, either. They’d fought for so long, and their only reward for all their efforts was this minuscule chance—not even a chance at all, really, it was just the only thing to do, the only thing they _could_ do.

Elrond squeezed his arm. “Have a little hope, Erestor.”

Erestor snorted. “If you wish, my Lord,” he drawled in reply.

Erestor could feel Elrond smiling, feel it like he could feel the heat leaving his body. “Well, I’ve seen stranger things happen,” Elrond said, light. “For instance, one time I saw the best and brightest Elf-Lord in existence fall in love with a cantankerous, persnickety—” he darted away before Erestor could pinch him, laughing.

“You press your luck, little one,” Erestor growled, but there was no bite in his mouth.

“Come now, Councilor,” Elrond returned to his side. “I would have joy from you, ere we embark on this final foray.”

Erestor relented. It would not do to stand idle when this last harvest of happiness stood ready in the fields. With a sudden twist he turned and scooped a spluttering, indignant Elrond up over his shoulder—oh, a great Elven Lord he may be, but Erestor had not forgotten that little child running in the waves, no— and shouted, “Glorfindel! Quick, to the waterfalls!”


	21. Reprieve

Erestor woke to an elbow jabbing firmly in his ribs, drool staining the front of his shift. He groaned, snuffling into his pillow, and shoved Elrond away. By the gods, the least he could’ve done when he started sleeping in the Healing rooms was _get a bigger bed._

Early spring light cut through the gauzy curtains, clear and austere as snowmelt. They’d moved Arwen here, when things had started getting very bad, and Elrond had pushed a bed up close to hers and slept there every night now. Erestor, of course, slept beside him, and woke more often than not to the sight of Elrond’s hand reaching across the brief chasm between them to clasp Arwen’s thin wrist. She said she was caught up in it, in the Ring—while it waxed she waned. She knew she would die if—well, _when—_ Sauron regained his precious ring. It was her own choice, to make herself vulnerable like this, but Erestor felt there was… a certain malicious _glee_ about it. Sauron forever thirsted for Elrond’s blood, and Arwen’s life must be sweeter still to his tongue—sometimes it seemed to Erestor that Sauron sat sure in his victory, and was perhaps postponing his final triumph so that he might torment them longer. It would be like him. Nonetheless, Arwen didn’t stop fighting— she reached out with her mind over the whole of Middle Earth to the Fellowship, to where her heart lay, to Estel, and gave whatever meager strength she had left to them. Erestor, furious as he was to see her so diminished, could not say she was… regretful. Mournful, yes, weighted down with grief, but she did not doubt her path—not even when Elrond broke down and wept for her.

Sometimes, if Erestor looked at her askance, he though she glimmered, like an opal—though who could tell if it were a trick of the light, or of the tears hovering in his periphery.

Elrond let out a little petulant snort and curled tighter on himself, pressing Erestor closer to the edge of the bed. Erestor blinked, eyes narrowed down at his fitful Lord, smacking his stale lips.

Across from them, napping lightly in a large plush chair with a quilt thrown over his boots, sat Glorfindel. He was home from patrol, then, and while he certainly should’ve changed before coming to see them Erestor couldn’t blame his haste, his desire to be close to them. They really should set up a bed for him too, one of these days.

There had been no news of what was happening, not since the twins and the Dúnedain left to join Estel on his suicide mission. Mostly they got brief glimpses from what Arwen could see—everyone save Boromir still lived, even if Olórin had done so in a rather roundabout way. While Sam and Frodo had dropped out of sight some weeks back Arwen had not yet _died_ , so it stood to reason that Sauron did not have the Ring and they yet toiled on. They still had hope—though who could tell how long that would hold.

Elrond didn’t speak much nowadays—the last string of words he had managed to put together were to advise the twins to throw themselves and the armies of Men at the Black Gate, perhaps buying Frodo and Sam a few precious unseen moments to reach Mount Doom—even if in the process they ensured their own demise. After that he went silent, asking only for a little water or to inquire how his bed-ridden daughter was feeling that day.

So they waited. And now Elrond did not even have Elladan and Elrohir left to him, so set were they to rush to their foster-brother’s aid—

It was the only way. There was no hope left. All they had now was to lay their bodies and their children’s bodies down as a bridge, a bridge to Mount Doom, a bridge to hope—

Maybe it would be enough. More than likely, however, it would not.

At night Erestor and Elrond would go to bed, exhausted beyond belief, and each morning they woke and looked to Arwen’s bed to see if their doom had come at last.

Now it was morning—late morning, perhaps, though he could not quite tell with the rain-heavy clouds drifting over the valley.

Erestor closed his eyes for one moment, two— and rolled over to see Arwen—

Gone?

He started, looking at the empty bed, the rumpled sheets. His heart leapt in his throat—was… this it? Was she… _gone?_

A rustle sounded near the far window and Erestor jerked his gaze up to see—Arwen? She stood, her hands braced on the sill and her face tilted to the new morning’s sun, her eyes closed and her cheeks flushed and—

“Arwen?” Erestor croaked, lifting himself out of the bed. “How—”

She turned to him and held out her hand. “Shush,” she said, grasping his hand as he came to stand by her. By the gods, she was _warm,_ oh, wasn’t that her mother’s smile catching around the edges of her mouth? Erestor gaped at her, unable to do anything but obey.

“I’m listening,” she explained. “I’m fairly sure everyone’s alright, but I wanted to make sure before I woke Dad up.”

“What do you _mean?_ ” Erestor’s voice cracked, his insides fluttering like a cloud of butterflies.

She gave him a forbearing smile, cut with a hint of mischievousness. “Why, can’t you tell?” she teased, squeezing his hand. “They’ve won. The Ring is _gone._ ”

Oh.

He looked to Arwen, took in the healthy shine of her hair, her eyes; the plushness of her waist under her shift—gone were the deep, bruised circles under her eyes, the stark thinness of her arms—she—she looked like _Luthien,_ dancing under the stars, full to brimming with _life—_

_Oh._

And if she was _alive,_ if Sauron’s vampiric reach was _gone—_

Then—

 _I’m fairly sure everyone’s alright, I just wanted to make sure—_ then Elladan, and Elrohir, and Estel—lived? Oh, and Thranduil’s precious boy, the Dwarven Prince, the _Hobbits—_

Oh _yes,_ it must be true, it _must be—_

The ability to breathe left him for awhile. He registered, distantly, Arwen leaving his side to leap on her father’s bed, giggling like a little girl while Elrond’s surprised shout of joy echoed through the hall. Glorfindel’s voice was there too, somewhere, singing, maybe? And others, rushing in—Lindir’s lilting call, Bilbo’s breathy, tired chuckle—

He lifted a hand to his face to find it wet.

And was it as simple as that? As simple as waking on a spring morning to find such a gift as this laid out in his lap? Perhaps it was.

Elrond came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him, pressing his face to the center of his back.

“They did it,” He gasped, and Erestor could feel the dampness from his tears leaking through his shift. “Oh, my shining ones, _they did it—_ and not one lost to me—”

Erestor laughed, or sobbed, or something similar, his spine curling down as he pressed his cheeks between his hands, his feet losing their way as he slumped down against the windowsill with Elrond in a heap.

“Oh, my little one, my little kestrel—” he gathered Elrond up to his chest, Arwen and Glorfindel curling up beside them to nest the two of them in their arms. They were all crying, the sound of it pealing through the rafters like bells. Outside it began to rain, water crashing down from the heavens and bursting through the open window, spraying down over them. Ulmo, maybe, and Manwë—oh, the world felt so _open—_ Erestor took heaving gulps of air, filling his lungs with the scent of rain and crushed buds and Elrond’s hair—

It was… over. Yes. It was over. There wasn’t room in Erestor’s body to hold what those three words meant but he knew he must grow to accommodate them—even now the sound of them piercing through his skin like sunbeams through the early-morning haze, like sprouts through the earth, like—

 _Oh,_ like Ereinion’s eyes, when they first met—all those long years ago, in that tiny little office, those silver-starlight eyes pulling back his layers to find his soft, vulnerable insides—

Elrond coughed out a laugh. “Glorfindel, I’m afraid you’ll have to do most of the preparations,” he said, his face smashed in the crevice between Erestor’s chest and Arwen’s arm. “As I am in no condition to do so.”

Erestor felt Glorfindel’s answering chuckle reverberate through his chest. Glorfindel leaned back, resting his golden head against the wall, and drew the three of them closer. “As you wish, my Lord, though you will forgive me if I must rest a little as well.”

The room was mostly empty by now, everyone else spilling out of the Healing rooms into the rest of the valley bearing the good news. Only Lindir and Bilbo sat nearby, Lindir carefully inscribing on a scrap of parchment everything Bilbo said. Bilbo was too frail to hold a quill now, and poor put-upon Lindir’s precise hands were just the things he needed for his little book—and who could expect him to wait for a proper scribe, not when he must capture the moment now! The scritching sound of the quill on parchment mingled with the sound of their unsteady breathing—the whole world all at once mundane and magnificent, common and holy.

Arwen carded her fingers through her father’s hair. “Glorfindel,” she added, a thoughtful tilt in her mouth. Water dripped from their shifts to pool on the stone floor around them. “Please send a letter to Círdan, as well. Tell him to build my father a ship. It’s time he sailed.”

Elrond jerked up, the lines under his eyes deep with shadow. He met her gaze, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You would not have me stay until—?”

Her lips quirked. “Would you be able to stand it, if you did? No, I don’t think so. You’re dissolving, even now. But don’t worry, Dad, please—” she leaned into Elrond’s trembling hand. “’Dan and ‘Rohir will stay with me, you—you have to go to Mom. She needs you. Aragorn and I—we’ll take over things from here. It’s our turn to make a new world. Anyway,” she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, wet with tears and rain both. “You have to take these two with you.”

She looked to Erestor and Glorfindel, smiling. Glorfindel tightened his arms around the three of them, the low hum in his throat all at once reluctant and longing.

They… they could go now, couldn’t they? Go to Aman? The Ring, Sauron— the evil they had fought for so long was gone. They were free to—

To _find him._

_Ereinion._

Glorfindel took his hand and Erestor realized he was crying again, feeling like nothing so much as a hollow leaf filled with rain, with the enormity of it all. When he tried to think about it he found that he couldn’t, not really. It was too much, too much all at once—

His head thumped back against the windowsill, water streaming into his hair and down his neck. Elrond’s solid weight leaned against his chest, absolutely spent. Arwen tucked herself up alongside the two of them and said something irrelevant to Glorfindel, who, with a wince, slipped his arm from where it was pinned between Erestor’s back and the wall to sling it over his shoulders instead. Oh, by all the gods—

They lived.

The windowpanes jostled against their frames in the wind, sheets of rain beating against the glass, against his hair. The sheer curtains plastered themselves over his skin like a veil. He lifted them from his face like peeling a second skin away, and, slowly, began to smile.


	22. Rain

The next time he saw Ereinion the journey he had begun nearly seven thousand years before was finally coming to an end.

Erestor and the others arrived in Aman in the middle of a thunderstorm—rain so thick he didn’t even know they had arrived until the ship slammed up against the dock, nearly upending them all where they stood, soaking, on deck. Sailors and deckhands, appearing as grey wisps through the sheets of rain, struggled to cleat the bucking ship down to the dock. Sails and lines whipped through the air with thundercrack ferocity, loud as thunder. The world heaved underfoot, and from where Erestor stood at the railing he could see waves frothing up through the slats of the dock in low, hissing growls. Even with his Elven vision he couldn’t make out much of the shore, just a smudge of darker grey dotted with a few pinpricks of light flickering in and out—and there, like an arm raised, stood a lighthouse. Overhead the lighthouse’s beam cut through the rain in eerie swaths, lighting their way for a lightning-brief moment before tilting away over the foaming surf.

Like an eye, searching— Erestor wrenched his gaze away, shuddering.

Glorfindel, Olórin, and Galadriel huddled around Frodo and Bilbo, holding tight to each other to keep their balance on the heaving deck. Elrond, ever Eärendil’s son, found himself completely at ease and fluttered between them and the railing, calling down to the sailors wrestling with the gangplank.

Erestor stood some feet away, his hands white with strain as he gripped the wooden rail. He had not enjoyed the last time he was on a ship; this journey had been no different. Only, the last journey ended in fire—this, it seemed, would end in water. He grit his teeth, breath hissing as he managed gulps of air through the torrent.

“My Lords! My Lady!” A voice called from the dock. The Harbormaster, securing the last cleat, waved them forward. “With me!”

She hurried their little company down the gangplank and over the slick dock to the safety of her lighthouse, shouting orders only to have them stolen by the wind. They ran as fast as they could muster, Bilbo tucked up in Olórin’s arms and Frodo in Glorfindel’s for safety. Erestor only noticed the moment they touched down on land from the feeling of wood under his feet falling away to sand, then stone—ashore at last.

“Here!” the Harbormaster swung open the door to the lighthouse, ushering them in. “Quickly!” She slammed the door behind them, or, rather, the wind did it for her, shutting them inside with a great crash. Outside the wind howled through the eaves, scratching at the spaces between the windows—

They clustered inside, dripping and panting.

“Well,” Elrond turned to Galadriel, looking infuriatingly chipper. “That was eventful, wasn’t it?”

She shot him a look and wrung out her hair on the welcome mat. Erestor noted the wary way she eyed the walls, a hunted sort of look about the lines of her face. Erestor felt it too— that sense of otherworldliness, of unwelcome. _Aman. We’re here. And what awaits us, I wonder?_ Sand scraped under his boots and he winced.

Despite the storm outside, however, the hall inside the lighthouse was homely and warm, filled with light from the hearth and ensconced candles. Calmness suffused through the room like a released breath. A great round table sat in the middle, surrounded by plush, high-back chairs in apple-red and sunset-orange, covered in knitted throws and quilts. Other, smaller tables surrounded the perimeter, interspersed with couches and little side tables with—ah! With _samovars_ and tea cups, ready to receive a host of guests. A far archway led deeper inside, the smell of soup and the sound of frantic cooks scurrying about rising from within. A few doors bracketed a staircase opposite the fire, perhaps leading to bedrooms, or other more private areas. A… resting house, then? Elves didn’t have much in the way of inns, but this seemed to be a good equivalent. The whole space seemed at least as ancient as Mithlond’s oldest halls, though it could easily be much older. Thick rugs piled underfoot and their little company stepped gingerly from the entryway over them, careful of their dripping robes.

“My dear Olórin,” Galadriel said, ignoring Elrond and looking to where Olórin was already spreading his wings out in front of the roaring fireplace. His great span hogged all the warmth for himself and the Hobbits, who had already stolen the rocking chairs closest to the hearth and were drying their foot-hair in the glow.

“Yes?” Olórin replied, looking over his shoulder.

“Do tell me, old friend,” Galadriel continued, “Why you could not simply ask you Lord to give us fairer sailing?”

Olórin’s face was a mask of innocence, “Why, my Lady, far be it from me to interrupt my Lord Manwë’s frolic, even for such an occasion.”

Glorfindel snorted, stepping out of his boots and shaking puddles of water out of them. “He means, my Lady, that he shall have to give a report as soon as Manwë discovers he’s returned—no doubt he orchestrated the storm himself to procrastinate.”

Olórin sniffed and turned away, preening his feathers with his long-fingered hands. “I have no idea what you mean.”

The Harbormaster, thankfully, interrupted them, pushing through the small entryway to enter the main space of the hall, her hands held out in apology. “I’m so sorry we are not readily able to receive you, my Lords—in better circumstances we would’ve hopefully had news from the gulls and thus would’ve had time to prepare—” she stuttered, embarrassed. “But alas, not even a gull would fly this storm! Ordinarily we would entertain you here while sending out messengers to find your loved ones—I understand you must be very eager to see them, but in this weather—”

Elrond cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand, “Fine, yes, of course—please, can you tell me news of my wife?”

The Harbormaster blinked. “Perhaps? What is her name, my Lord, ah—?”

“Elrond.” Elrond replied, nearly vibrating out of his shoes with impatience. “Her name is Celebrían.” He grasped the Harbormaster’s arm. “Come now, you must have met her—”

Glorfindel, watching with a wry smile, chuckled and leaned over to Galadriel. “Ah, no one knows who we are, here!”

She rolled her eyes, her arms folded across her chest. “A _few_ still know us, my Lord. A _troublesome_ few. We are not so anonymous so as to have a peaceful arrival—I only hope we find my daughter before my _parents_ discover I’m home.”

Glorfindel laughed at that, smile bright in the firelight’s glow. “Too true!”

The logs in the fire shifted, hissing and snapping as the fire ate at their edges. They were all safe and warm—

 _For the moment, at least_. Erestor felt his lip twitch in a wry twist. He tucked himself deeper in the shadow of the doorway, as if it might shelter him a few moments longer.

He kept waiting for— for wings, Manwë striking down to give him final judgment, or the midnight tread of Namó’s feet, his fell mouth curled around the word _No—_ or, more terrifyingly, for Elrond, shaking him awake, _Come now, Erestor, you fell asleep—we must tend to his body before we bury it—_

The rain seeped cold through his thick, black robes and he shivered, his skin awash in goosebumps. His fingers found the opal ring on his finger, twisting it, the stones catching on his skin. The carcanet lay thick around his neck, hidden by the high rise of his collar, and when he swallowed he could feel his neck working against the unyielding silver. He hardly dared step into the hall. His heart rose in his throat, choking his breath.

Ai, why would his hands not stop shaking?

He sniffed, water dripping down his nose. If he moved too quickly he could almost feel it, the cold blade of his fears become reality at his neck, waiting to fall—

Homecomings were not supposed to be like this, were they? Or maybe they were, for prodigals like him.

There had been much talk on board of what their arrival would be like, Elrond working out his nervousness and excitement in a thousand if-then scenarios. Would those in Aman know they were on their way, would they gather at the docks, rush though the surf to receive them? Or would their weary company have to journey yet another distance, up and down the breadth of the continent to find their loves?

Erestor hadn’t had much heart for such conversations, lips closed in a silent straight line more often than not. His heart held a thousand more questions, each more terrifying than the last— _What if Glorfindel was a fluke? What if the dead are not granted life again? Or, if they are, what if the Powers that Be have changed their minds about me? What if they will not permit a kinslayer on their shores, not even for the sake of love? Or, worse still, what if he took his own advice and found someone else? What if he left me behind? After all, what Lord would take a kinslayer as a consort in Aman? What if he doesn’t love me anymore? What if what if what if—_

He bit his lip hard, just shy of breaking the delicate skin. Damn it all.

His hand lifted to his collar, rubbing lightly around the outline of the carcanet. He’d put it on, finally, the day they’d left for Gondor. Since then he hadn’t taken it off, not even to sleep, wearing it snug under his robes until—

Until Arwen’s wedding, and for that day only there had been enough light and happiness in the air to give him the courage to wear it in public, his celebratory robes awash with midnight blue and spangled with stars—

He’d lost his courage, after that. He kept it hidden, now, afraid that if he showed it he’d—test fate, or Manwë’s will, or—

 _Damn it all, he’d come this far_ —

He schooled his breath in his lungs, forced it to flow measured, even. His hands knotted into fists. Soon. Everything would be decided soon. He steeled himself, letting out a long breath through his nose. It was not a time for hope, no, nor wanting— to let himself feel the fullness of the desire in his bones would rend him in two. He dare not think, no—

No, not even his name. If he thought his name he would go mad.

No, no hope, no wanting. It was time to wait. To take on the aspect of a stone, unfeeling, and let time pass until it was safe to unfurl and act. He must not feel, must only observe and wait until fate was laid down upon him. He could do this, could wait, could shut out the torrent inside his chest—

And yet, he trembled.

“Celebrían?” The Harbormaster was saying. “Oh, you mean _Celebrí—”_

“You mean _ME!”_

A thunder of what sounded like a thousand horses sounded from the stairwell and a bolt of silver _flew_ out of the far doorway and into Elrond’s arms, bowling him over the table. “ _Elrond!”_

“ _Celebrían!”_

The world exploded into delight after that, what with Celebrían kissing Elrond senseless on the poor overtaxed table while everyone else wrestled between their modesty and their need to be close to her, to gather her up and assure themselves _Yes!_ She _breathed_ , she _lived_ , she—

Erestor fisted his hands in his robes, lips trembling. _Celebrían._ He felt that if he made a sound, even a whimper, everything would break and it would all prove a lie, an illusion, and that it would somehow prove to be his fault in the end.

Celebrían pulled back enough to heave a breath of air, hands and knees bracketing Elrond’s splayed-out form, her hair a foaming waterfall around them, and then—

Oh, and then she _laughed._

“I thought you’d _never_ come!” She sat back on Elrond’s lap and yanked him up for another kiss, open-mouthed and completely unselfconscious of the crowd around them.

Elrond, overwhelmed with tears, couldn’t manage much more than simply lifting his hands to cup her face, tracing his fingers and lips up the stark silver lines of her scars. They shone everywhere—up her arms and legs, running down to disappear under her gauzy dress. Silver and slick purple, even red in some places, cutting violently across her whole body—and even from the far corner Erestor could tell that she didn’t care about them at all, didn’t care who saw them.

By all the gods, she had _made it._ She had _healed,_ she was _fine,_ better, even—

“Yes, yes, alright!” Galadriel broke first. “Celebrían, your mother wishes for a few spare moments of your time,” she said, feigning a playful sort of sternness that did nothing to disguise the quaver in her voice.

Celebrían pulled back, looking up and seeing the rest of them as if for the first time. “ _Mom?”_

Galadriel, looking small for once in her life, held out her arms.

Everyone had their turn after that, Glorfindel and Olórin and even the Hobbits clustering close, hugging and introducing and explaining while Elrond and Galadriel tried to find things to do with their hands that weren’t overbearing. The room lowered to a warm simmer, excitement mellowing out into joy.

Erestor stood apart in the entryway, bracing a hand against the archway. He—was too afraid, or despairing, maybe, to go forward and prove to himself that he wasn’t dreaming. He wished Celebrían would look to him, would come to him and welcome him, draw him out of himself and into Aman— but he couldn’t open his mouth.

Thus it was he saw the elf in the hallway before anyone else did.

Rog stood nearly invisible, his skin the same dusky color as the warm shadowed wood of the archway, only, he was so tall he filled the hollow—an oak in full fall splendor with his thick auburn hair cascading down his knotted, scarred chest. He had a gnarled hand pressed to his mouth, catching the tears falling down his face, while the other held the rest of him up against the posts of the archway. His legs trembled beneath him, rooted in place, his eyes filled with such longing Erestor wondered that the room wasn’t set on fire with it, just from the force of his gaze. He—oh, he was watching _Glorfindel_ —who had _no_ idea, none at all, that his long-longed-for lover stood not ten paces away—

“ _Glorfindel—!”_ Rog whispered, his voice nearly lost behind his hand.

Glorfindel’s head whipped towards him, instinctive—and his sky-blue eyes blew out wide and he gave a cry, torn up from his throat—

And then they crashed together, in each other’s arms—Glorfindel leapt up and wrapped his legs around Rog’s waist, burying his hands in Rog’s hair and groaning against his mouth, already so flushed, so overwhelmed— Rog caught him with the ease of long practice, unforgotten even after thousands of years, arms tight around Glorfindel’s back and thighs. Erestor could hardly tell where golden hair began and auburn hair ended, oh, how they _tangled_ themselves.

“I told him, you know— just like I said.” Erestor jumped as Celebrían’s voice at his side startled him out of his reverie. She had snuck close and slipped a hand in his elbow without him even feeling it—by the gods, he must be out of sorts, _ha,_ that was one way to put it—

“Well?” She leaned against his side, smiling up at him. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

He looked to her and nodded. His mind spun with too many things and he felt that if he opened his mouth they would all come pouring out in one long sob. He almost couldn’t stand to look at her—but this was _Celebrían,_ so how could he not?

Her grey eyes glimmered with mirth and kindness, and she tucked him up in the circle of her arms, understanding.

“I bet you’re having a very hard time, aren’t you?” She whispered in his ear, her hands very soft over the back of his wet robes.

He nodded jerkily, his own arms drifting up to hold her, his limbs remembering the shape of her after so long apart. He’d _missed_ her, missed her dearly, missed her laugh and her smile and the way she brought light to Elrond’s eyes— and this too, this gentleness, this clear-cut understanding. Ai, she had a better eye for the soul of people than any other wily politician he had ever seen, and she used her vast powers to simply comfort her friends when they needed it.

“Come now, speak to me a little,” Celebrían’s hands stilled on his back. “What ails you so?”

Erestor inhaled through his nose, desperately trying _not_ to disintegrate into nothing—“H-how have you been?” he asked. His voice felt wild in his throat, an unknown thing.

She laughed, a high sound like water falling down a rock, and indulged his reluctance. “Well!” she paused. “Better, now that you all are here. The first couple centuries were terrible, as you might imagine, but I’m well enough now. I’ve been living here since, well, since I managed to sneak away from Tirion and my grandparents, keeping busy and such while waiting. We get news about Middle Earth fairly often, between the ships coming in and the news from the gods. Oh yes,” she snickered softly—she must have felt the sarcastic _oh really?_ bubbling up in him and answered it before he could give it voice. “The gods watch Middle Earth, or, at least some of them do, and there are more notorious gossips than Olórin yet in the hosts of the Maia. Though,” Erestor could feel her tilt her head towards Olórin, no doubt narrowing her eyes. “News has been a little slow in coming, recently—we thought you’d stay in Middle Earth another decade at least, last we heard! And don't think we didn't notice that little stunt you pulled, my grandfather  _still_ can't figure out how  _you_ received his precious necklace- But that doesn’t matter now, does it? Tell me,” she pulled back just the tiniest bit so she could meet his eyes. “How are you?”

He stared back at her, silent once more. Her words—so casual, as if they were still in Imladris, just sitting down for tea—caught at him like a net, bringing his fluttering, thrashing spirit down to earth to gasp in the dust.

“Here,” she said, and ran her hands down his arms to grasp his. “I will answer all your troublesome questions, at least as many as I can sense galloping around in that mind of yours.”

Then, slowly, as if she were gently plucking his terrors away like loose cobwebs, she told him everything. “Yes, the dead may rise again—all of them, in fact, unless they do not choose to do so. It is a gift offered to all Elves, yes, even the terrible, tormented ones. From what Rog tells me it is all very similar to how it happened to Glorfindel—you are given a new body for your soul, or, more accurately, you regain your old one. Sometimes the scars and marks of life stay, other times, they don’t. A mystery of Namó, I think. As for the rest of the gods, you need not worry about them—they have welcomed back all you pesky Fëanorians, yes, even your Lords the Fëanoryn, though not all of them have chosen life again just yet. It takes awhile, for some. Though, not so long for others,” she grinned, her pink tongue caught between her teeth in barely-held laughter. “Your Gil-galad popped up out of Lord Namó’s Halls within a year and a half of his death, or so I hear, and he’s lived here in the Haven ever since, just _waiting—”_ she kissed his nose—“for _you.”_

That, somehow, did it for him—broke something open, snapped Erestor’s body flush back with his spine.

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Are—are you sure?”

She laughed at him then, wide and delighted. “Of course I’m sure! Do you think I would not know my own cousin? We see each other nearly every other day, and rare is the occasion we do not trade news and gossip about you and Elrond and all our other loved ones. But here,” She turned him closer to the door and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “The rain’s a little troublesome but I’m sure you’ll be able to find it easily enough—if you go straight down the main avenue for about a mile, you’ll come to a fountain square. It’s nearly at the foot of the mountains, so go left and follow the curve of the hill. Once you come to the river you’ll be able to find your way from there.”

Erestor looked at her like—like she had just tossed the sun into the sky as easily as a rose blossom, like she’d opened the world to light with a wink, or—but she had, hadn’t she? Opened _his_ world, anyway, clearing the brambles out of his heart with a few easy sweeps before stepping aside to let him walk the path before him.

“ _Thank you,_ Celebrían,” he said, voice cracking, and he dipped down to kiss her cheek. His voice felt like honey in his mouth, everything about his body sweet and ready to—

to be _devoured._

She pursed her lips in a knowing smirk. “I’ll tell the others where you’ve gone, hmm? Besides, we’ll be over tomorrow morning—” she caught his look. “—Afternoon. Late afternoon. Evening.” She waved him away, pushing him towards the door. “We’ll be over _eventually._ Now, off with you!” and she unbolted the door, quick and quiet, and let him out into the rain.

He spun towards her for a brief moment, pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, and ran.

Water cascaded down from the sky and he felt it filling his mouth as he panted, his lungs heaving with the sharp tang of sky and lightning. His boots slammed against the pavement, his hands holding up his soaking robes like he was a maiden in spring, skipping down the mountainside—

And he _laughed,_ the feel of it whirling up through his whole body and—and _oh_ he hadn’t felt this way since he was _young,_ since he danced under the Trees—

_Ereinion—!_

The Haven gradually took shape, buildings rising like a forest around him. He raced down what must be the main avenue, lined with trees and tall marble obelisks between arches leading deeper into mansions and palaces, each more magnificent than the last. Lights from the windows glimmered through the rain, igniting iridescent clouds of mist around him as he whipped past, flashing against inlaid mother-of-pearl hidden in corners. He felt old and tattered as a dishrag in the midst of such splendor but he _didn’t care—_ no, not with _him_ waiting.

_Ereinion. Oh, my love—_

Oh, his name was _medicine_ on his tongue, sharp as athelas and twice as potent, running through his body and lifting him up—Erestor gasped it under his breath, tasting the way it lay in his mouth, the way it seeped beneath his skin like a balm.

All these years Erestor had never really felt like he had _permission_ to hope—instead keeping all his dreams and desires hidden, illicit, kept safe from all the things threatening to tear them apart. He’d spent all those years scrabbling along like a rat in a sewer, snatching scraps of happiness and hoarding them. It was familiar work—what else was a Councilor like him supposed to do in times of war?—but the war was over now, over for good, and things like hopes and desires could rest out in the open and recover. The rain, battering torrent that it was, washed away all the grime and despair from the creases between his bones.

Erestor felt hollow, as giddy and unused to his body as a faun. He’d fought so hard to survive, snapping and growling at perceived threat—even the _gods_ , because apparently he’d fight _anything—_ so afraid had he been of losing _everything_. He led his life within a razor’s width of _total loss_ , and watching catastrophe befall countless others never made him feel lucky, only deadly certain—it was only a matter of time before it was his turn. Witnessing the span of Middle Earth left him with a sense of impending doom, of horrifying, strangling fear cleaving as close as his own shadow.

His fear proved true, in the end.

He’d lost _Ereinion,_ his heart, his _One_ —

And without Elrond, where would he have been?

But—he laughed, nearly manic— that was an unanswerable question! And who had time for such things, here in the undying world?

It was all _over_.

 _Truly_ over. And now his soul’s desire—long hoped-for, even as he had despaired— _Ereinion_ waited for him. For _him._

He paused to catch his breath in the lee of a doorway, slumping against the stone. Water fell in rivulets from the lintel to his face, trickling in his open mouth with the taste of metal and lichen. His head lolled against the stone and he wondered what sorts of miracles the world would birth now. Sauron, gone? The dead, alive again? What would come next, Eru Himself come down to lift Beleriand from the sea? Who could say?

Certainly not Erestor, distracted as he knew he would be with a certain pair of silver-sharp eyes—

He turned back out into the rain, the water drumming hard down on his shoulders. The streets, empty, wound before him like a great stone-backed serpent. His rational mind realized, through the haze of his excitement, that his nightmares would most likely be particularly vicious for a very long time after this. Fear didn’t drain out of a person quickly, or easily—and his soul had been living hand-to-mouth for thousands of years now. He half-expected Lord Irmo to come to him sometime in the future, aghast. _Your dreams are tangling in the Web of Night for miles around you! What on earth lives in that head of yours?_

 _I saw his dead body—and you offered me no succor,_ he decided he’d say if he was feeling snappish that day. If he was feeling torn-open and vulnerable, he’d say, _I love him too much to not be afraid._

And if he was feeling light and full of happiness, he would take Ereinion’s hand and murmur, _Don’t worry, they’ll pass—and if they don’t then he will be there in the morning to comfort me anyway._

Lightning arced above him, illuminating the end of the main avenue. He was close to the hills now, sloping up into the mountains, and through the center of the square the foretold fountain ran through a series of pools filled with the still forms of copper herons and fish. Where the window-light shone above the tops of the houses he could see the echoes of great green swaths of land, carpeted with trees and waving grass. He turned left, up along the far curve of the hill, his boots splashing through hundreds of tiny streams working their way down the cobblestones. Distantly, under the roar of the storm, he could hear the deep groan of a river and he picked up his pace.

The river flowed from a cleft in the hills, frothing down from a high horse-tail fall into a deep pool carved into swirls of stone ledges. Bubbling and leaping in the rain, the river then flowed down through the Haven, winding through the streets as bridges and houses crossed its banks like stitches on a hem.

Celebrían had said he’d be able to find his way from here, and—

And _there,_ just across the river, rose a sandstone wall covered in frescoes, horses and wingless dragons and _stars,_ multitudes of stars inlaid with gems—

Erestor crossed the nearest bridge with his breath caught in his throat—the wall, _follow the wall—_ and when he placed his hand against the fluted curve of a stallion’s nostril it sent a thrill up his arm and through his whole body in one delicious shiver.

He followed the wall until it cornered away from the river, deeper towards the hills. Then, almost out of nowhere, a gate appeared. It stood—a small, unassuming thing, iron bars twinned with tiny metal vines and serpentine dragons—more than likely used by the household staff when they wished to avoid the main gate.

And—praise be to all the gods and their many blessings— it swung open at his barest touch, unlocked.

He slipped inside.

This palace was rather less large than the one at Mithlond, but it still reminded Erestor nothing so much as an over-large cat, stretched out between copses of tall cypress trees and pools of water. Erestor could hear them more than see them, each pool finding a different voice as the rain caught them up into song.

He leaned back against the stone, unbalanced. The rough scrape of it, so _familiar,_ caught at his thick robes. Now that he was _so close,_ nearly desperately so, he felt… _playful_. Maybe. If he still knew how to play, after all this time. He looked with a sneaky sort of smile over to where the main gate must be, checking for any errant guards or heralds that might alert Ereinion to his presence before he was ready to reveal himself. Should he just waltz in the front door, march right up to Ereinion’s office and slam open the door, let Ereinion drag him up over the desk while his wet robes ruined all the paperwork? Erestor’s mouth twitched. Tempting. But then he saw a familiar-looking wall curving back behind the main body of the palace, disappearing further into the undergrowth, and Erestor _wondered._

The wall was covered in vines and it took a little while for Erestor to find the bare spot, marked only by the thin track leading away from the seemingly-solid patch of stone into the underbrush. He brushed his hand over it for a moment, palm flat—

Then he spoke a word and a door appeared.

He had to pause for a moment, trembling violently.

He was going to give Ereinion _everything._ Every last crumb of himself, every day, over and over, until their immortal lives ran out.

The garden carried an echo on Mithlond in them despite their differences, and Erestor recognized the deep pools singing with rain next to reeds dipping and bowing under the weight of the water. He walked through the grass trailing his wet robes behind him, his pace slowing. A heavy sailcloth curtain hung pulled over the lee of the palace where the porch must be, but it was no trouble at all to pull aside a corner and slip inside.

He paused on the threshold, as if caught between night and day. It was and wasn’t how he remembered it—there sat the big bed covered in messy blankets and the ropes of jewels and pearls strung over the posts, but more rugs lined the floor, more half-open books lay stacked on the low tea-tables and couches. There was a fireplace crackling in a far corner—new as well— with rugs and cushions tossed carelessly in front of it, empty mugs lining the lintel next to more books. Lanterns stained with colored glass burned merrily in most corners and Erestor almost moved to put them out—but the land was so rich here, there was no reason to ration them. The whole room swathed itself in a warm glow, reds and oranges and deep turquoise blues splashing across the floor and tapestried walls.

Erestor wandered closer to the walls, heedless of his robes dripping all over the floor. The tapestries were new, too—in Mithlond there were a few in Ereinion’s rooms, but here they hung everywhere, filled with—oh, that was _Imladris,_ wasn’t it? And there, Nargothrond, with its great crystal lamps stitched in pearls. Erestor peered closer. Yes, there stood Finduilas, and Túrin, and Orodeth—and across the way a stitched Elrond sat at a desk next to Celebrían, and the twins, and Arwen, and—oh, _Erestor_ was there too, sitting in a garden reading some book or another. The threads around his face were a little frayed, as if something had brushed up against them once too often.

Erestor ran his thumb over the threads. There—oh there were tiny little stars stitched above his head, camouflaged in the weave. For Elrond, maybe? _Star-dome?_ Or for Ereinion? Erestor huffed a wry laugh. Both, maybe. Or maybe Ereinion hadn’t dared hope that Erestor would return to him and had slipped his love into the tapestry sideways, hidden to all but himself.

Erestor let his hand fall, and he stepped away from the tapestry, anticipation growling along the slope of his spine. He would return to it later, hopefully with _someone_ to enlighten him further as to its meaning.

A quick search in a nearby closet provided a clean shift—hemmed in _gold,_ because this was the time to remember that he was so very _vain_ and that he was very much looking forward to being _admired,_ to being _touched_ and _—_ and he had time for indulgences now, didn’t he? He had _time_ to be vain, to show himself off for his lover. He huffed a laugh through his nose, half-feeling like that tattered dishrag, now arranging itself in artfully ragged folds. He’d gone silly with anticipation, hadn’t he? Silly with three thousand year’s worth of white-knuckle agony and fear suddenly lifted, the release leaving him as empty-headed as a bubble. He held the shift up to his chest like a dress, careful not to dampen it against his wet robes. Well—he lifted his shoulders, twirled a lock of his hair between his fingers— he certainly had time to be silly, now, didn’t he? That’s what this meant, didn’t it?

They _had time_ now.

He ran his thumb over the ribbed edges of the hem, glinting in the lantern light. Then he tucked it over his arm went about his usual routine.

And there, just as he suspected—a hidden corner revealed the entrance to the bathing pool, steaming and ready. His robes, by now freezing him to the bone, were soon discarded and laid out to dry on a nearby bench. He stepped into the water and, with a sigh, sank down. Steam rose up in his eyes and he submerged himself up to his nose, fingers tight on the lip of the pool to keep him from trembling.

When he stepped out of the water, clean and warm and _ready_ —though not _too_ ready, he knew how much Ereinion liked to _play—_ he found the shift ballooned around him, much too big. He bit his lip and tried not to think about wide, freckled shoulders. He tugged it on anyway and it slipped coquettishly down one shoulder. Examining himself in a steam-fogged mirror, he decided he rather liked the look of it, and he let his wet hair fall down over his back to soak through the fabric.

Then he just… stood there, by this point too far gone with anticipation and frayed-edge tiredness and whatever other emotions catching up in his chest. He looked to the mirror and saw himself, and—he—he looked like something out of his own dreams, standing in _Ereinion’s washroom_ , dressed in nothing but _Ereinion’s shift_ , waiting for— _oh—_

He clenched his hands into fists and tucked them close to his chest, as if he could keep his insides from spilling out. His whole body shook like the wind rippling over water and he bit his lip to keep from screaming. Fear, or grief, or… disappointment, the inevitable betrayal, stalked at the borders of his mind, edging closer.

 _Please, don’t let this be a dream. Please._ He didn’t know what he’d do if he woke up from this.

But then again, he didn’t really know what to do _now_ save to submit himself to the agony of waiting, so he padded out to the—

The door handle turned with a _click!_

He froze, half-hidden in shadow. His hand drifted up to the carcanet at his throat, fingers hooking sharp in the silver, the other white-knuckled against the wall—

The door opened with a slow surety, and then—

And then Ereinion walked into the room.

He had a stack of papers held in his hand and he read them with a slight frown, a single crease forming between his brows. Fingers crumpled the edges of the paper with a light _shuff-crnk_ sound. He closed the door behind him absently and went to go sit down on the edge of his bed, turning the papers over in his hands.

Erestor shook, unable to move. He—oh, _he_ — it was all _true—_

_He lived._

Had he really believed it, even with Celebrían’s assurance? The last time Erestor had seen Ereinion he was _dead_ , slumped in a grave—and Erestor hadn’t ever stopped mourning that, not really—not even on the best days, the days when hope was a thing he could pick up in his palms and breathe in like the scent of crushed mint— _Ereinion was dead,_ and no amount of hoping could change that, but— _but—_

Even from here Erestor could see the gentle rise and fall of his breast under his thin tunic, easy and steady. His eyes, thickly lashed with gold, scanned the pages in front of him, his hands moving in quick, sleek gestures. He wore his hair loose now and it was longer than Erestor remembered it, falling nearly to the dip of his spine—but it shone that same shadowless gold of his dreams, of the little braid he still had tucked away. And there, barely visible—that little scar he’d earned only a few months before, bisecting his mouth in a little white line and—Erestor’s breath stopped in his throat. _Freckles._ Ereinion must have been in the sun recently in order to darken that swath across the bridge of his nose, dotting the back of his hands, _oh—_ everything about him, his skin, his eyes, his gait, the way he _breathed_ —it was all the same, just the same as that last day at Dagorlad, only, perhaps he stood a little lighter, a little more free. _Oh,_ the span of those broad shoulders under his tunic, the shifting of his muscles in his thigh under the light fabric of his leggings— he _moved,_ he _breathed,_ he _lived—_

Erestor felt sorrow—or weariness maybe, or joy—break over him like a thundercloud, full of such agony and sweetness both _._

He’d _missed him._

He’d missed him _so much—_ oh, so many years _alone,_ alone and with only a thread’s hope— and, in a way, Erestor was _still_ missing him, somehow, like the pain of placing a frostbitten hand in a bath of warm water, not knowing if the fingers would ever recover. The ice lingered. Heaviness settled around his shoulders. He could hardly breathe, his breath stuttering in and out of his lungs in little silent pulses. His legs trembled, threatening to spill from under him. Tears gathered in his eyes and he blinked them away furiously, unwilling to lose even a moment—

It would only take five paces, if that, to take him to his arms—and yet Erestor could not move for the beauty of the sight before him.

 _Look at me,_ Erestor pleaded, voiceless. _Please, beloved, look at me._

Ereinion took a frustrated breath in through his nose, pursing his lips down at the papers. His feet, bare, tapped the floor in impatience—some courtly matter, no doubt. The water that had dripped from Erestor’s robe splished a little under his heel and, only just now noticing, Ereinion looked down to examine it. His eyes followed the little wet trail up the length of the room, confusion in the corners of his mouth, until—

“Ereinion,” Erestor whispered, his voice barely louder than a leaf dropping into a still pool.

Ereinion’s eyes leapt to his, caught, held—

Everything froze, held suspended like a crystalline winter’s morning. Silence stretched thin between them, pulled almost to breaking—

The papers fell to the floor like a shower of feathers.

Ereinion’s throat worked over the collar of the tunic. “I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep,” he managed, low. His voice washed over Erestor in a shower of sparks.

“I’m not a dream,” Erestor replied, almost not believing his own words.

Ereinion began to rise, achingly slow, from the bed. “That’s what you always say,” he said, a wry tilt in his mouth. “And then you leave me when I wake.”

Erestor narrowed his eyes, something of his fire returning. “Big words from the one who _left me_ alone in Dagorlad.”

Ereinion took a step towards him, as hesitant as if he was approaching a skittish doe. “Ah, there’s that sharp tongue,” he mused, half to himself. “Will you finally let me touch you this time, I wonder? Or will you dissolve into smoke?”

The shaking in Erestor’s legs grew as he watched Ereinion take another step. “I’m not a dream,” he repeated, leaning heavily on the wall. He’d come too far and now he couldn’t take another step, could only wait for _him_ to reach out and—oh gods, why didn’t Ereinion just _touch him already—_

Ereinion stopped half a pace from Erestor, sadness and fear mingled in his face. His hand lifted, paused, unsure—

“Ereinion, _please—”_ Erestor begged, voice breaking, unable to—

And Ereinion obeyed, reaching out to brush the back of his knuckles across Erestor’s cheek. “Oh,” he breathed, fear falling from his face in surprise, in wonder— “ _Oh—”_

Erestor’s knees finally buckled underneath him and Ereinion rushed forward to catch him, crushing him close to his body—he, _oh_ , the _warmth_ of him _—_

“You _came,”_ Ereinion breathed, hands cleaving close, lifting him off the ground into the shadow of his body. “You _waited for me—”_

Erestor clung to him, his lungs heaving with sobs, gasping in lungfulls of rain and salt and linen and _skin,_ hands reaching up to bury themselves in the fall of Ereinion’s hair. No dream had ever felt this _right,_ this _perfect._

“ _Ereinion—”_ he moaned, curving his body up against him until they were pressed flush shoulder to calf. He could feel Ereinion’s breath trembling wet on his shoulder, could hear his faint whimpers as he wept. Tears dripped like hot wax down his bare shoulder, falling down over his breast.

“Oh _beloved_ ,” Erestor opened his mouth along Ereinion’s neck, _tasting._ A strange, halting feeling settled inside him, like the sigh of doused steel. “I have not been _whole_ without you.”

Ereinion kissed him— _finally—_ for that, yanking him up by his hair and diving down to claim his mouth, teeth and tongue keen and _demanding._ His tongue curled in Erestor’s mouth and lapped up his reedy whines, slick with need—Erestor nipped back at his lips, pulling back only to admire the fruits of his effort, Ereinion’s hazy eyes and plush-red lips—

“—need to feel close to you,” Erestor mumbled against the curve of Ereinion’s jaw, voice falling away once more like a candle risen to flame and snuffed out in the same breath.

Ereinion nodded, and guided him with little gentle nudges between kisses back towards the bed. There he pushed Erestor down on the mussed quilts and rucked the shift up over his head, palming up and down Erestor’s sides as if he were trying to get as much of Erestor’s skin under his hands as possible, as if he could hold the whole of him and never let go. Erestor sprawled out over the bed with a low groan, watching with a wild sort of awe as Ereinion rubbed a thumb over one of his nipples before ducking down to suck, fire sparking under his skin.

“ _Ah—!”_ Erestor bucked up into his mouth, tears falling and drying in tacky trails along his neck, his ears. His cock, twitching up on his belly, brushed rough against Ereinion’s tunic. Erestor reached over and yanked at the tunic, growling, “This, _off—”_

Ereinion chuckled and nuzzled at his ribs. “Always so _demanding,_ ” he murmured, endlessly fond. Erestor almost scolded him for the taunt anyway, only, Ereinion chose that moment to lean back and draw the tunic over his head, revealing his broad, freckled chest, his lean belly and sloped hipbones—and after that the only thing Erestor found himself capable of doing was spreading his legs to let Ereinion _in,_ let him _fill_ all those haunted vacant spaces inside him—

It had been too long and even when Ereinion finally deemed Erestor ready enough for his cock it still wasn’t without pain, without a breath hissed between his teeth—but Ereinion gentled him down and helped him breathe through it, palm flat on Erestor’s belly to feel its rise and fall.

“Hush, love,” he murmured as Erestor lowered himself down, growling between his teeth and clenching at Ereinion’s shoulders. It _hurt,_ the stretch of Ereinion’s cock wider than he remembered, but _oh,_ the feeling of Ereinion’s thighs trembling between his, his own cock leaking in the light, downy hair of Ereinion’s belly— the _pleasure_ of it, of their bodies _together_ — and then, almost like a surprise, Erestor took the last half-inch and they sat flush together, _joined._

“Oh,” Ereinion breathed. His eyes shone in the multicolored lamplight, glinting like twin comets. “ _Oh_ , my heart—”

They regarded each other for a moment, silent but for their heavy breathing. Then Ereinion lifted his hands to Erestor’s face, framing them, and as Erestor watched a sob worked it way out of Ereinion’s throat and shuddered through him.

“I missed you,” he said, a sorry twist in his mouth. “I… did not dare to hope you would return to me, after. I did not think you would forgive me.”

Erestor leaned his forehead against Ereinion’s, slowly adjusting to his thick cock, breathing ragged. “I love you, you fool.” He said, throat dry. “There was never anything to forgive. I will _always_ love you, and damn you for believing otherwise.”

Ereinion leaned up and bit Erestor’s lip, short and sharp. “ _Marry me,”_ he whispered, his fingers hooking over the carcanet at Erestor’s throat, slick with sweat. “ _Please._ Marry me _now_ , my love, my only one— _make your vow to me_ —”  _Oh,_ that last forbidden doorway, that final untrod step, all the pieces of their lives gathered together and made  _whole_ -

And Erestor threw back his head and laughed, rolling his hips with malicious glee—“Oh no, you don’t get away that easily!” he ground down and smirked at Ereinion’s low moan, the way his eyelids drooped with pleasure. “You’re going to _marry me_ in front of _both our families—_ you’re going to shower me in all the riches and colors of your House and then when I am glittering like a simaril with jewels you are going to _parade me_ through the whole of Tirion until we come to the palace of your _grandsire_ himself, and then when Finarfin and Fingolfin and Fëanor and all their children are assembled, you are going to _make your vow to me_ and you are going to call on Manwë and Varda themselves to witness it! And _then—”_ but Erestor didn’t have time to finish his thought before Ereinion had him flat on his back, kissing him senseless and driving into him with quick, brutal thrusts, whispering desperately _Yes— oh, anything you wish, yes, yes!_

And Erestor came just like that, just from Ereinion’s body bearing down on his, those teeth sharp at Erestor’s neck and his hands tight in his hair, in the meat of his thigh—Erestor _moaned,_ pleasure cracking through him like a flash-flood, bruising and throbbing and suffocating and _bright—_ bright and piercing as _starshine—_ he collapsed back on the bed, riding it out, smiling so hard it hurt.

Ereinion’s mouth smeared graceless and frantic against Erestor’s lips, his breath coming in short gasps as he pumped his cock deeper inside, the feel of it unyielding and pitiless and _perfect_ — and Erestor wound one hand in the hair at the base of Ereinion’s neck, pulling hard until he could hear the faint whimper in the back of his throat. “ _Come for me,_ Ereinion,” he commanded, canting his hips up and wrapping his legs tight around Ereinion’s flanks, and Ereinion yanked Erestor’s hips back onto his cock and, and, _oh—_

Ereinion’s hair fell around them in a fall of gold, curtaining Erestor from the outside in flashes of orange and blue. The world fell away, leaving only _Ereinion—_ the sweat-slicked roll of his body, the sweet taste hidden under his tongue, the low moan in his throat as he came, whispering, _Erestor, oh, my love._

They simply lay together for a little while after that, sweat drying on their skin and their movements slowing to soft, languorous kisses. Outside the storm rained on, intermittently growling with low thunder. Erestor could feel a breeze blowing in from some crack in the sailcloth, washing his skin with goosebumps and he shivered, caught between the chill and the delicious heat of Ereinion’s body.

Ereinion leaned up on his elbows and regarded him with a fond, secret smile. Erestor slung his arms around his neck, beaming up at him, no doubt looking like a love-sick fool. Was it possible to be this happy? Erestor would have said no, before.

“How are you, Erestor?” Ereinion asked, leaning down to brush Erestor’s nose with his own.

It was such an odd question, or at least it seemed so, but Erestor answered anyway. “Better, now,” he said, his voice dipping. “Not so well before, but better now.”

Ereinion nodded and fell silent, not pressing further. He understood. Later, perhaps—no, definitely, this was a world for _definitely—_ Erestor would tell him everything, all the joys and sorrows and fears, and Ereinion would hold him through all of it. There was enough warmth in that thought alone to keep him through a thousand winters and Erestor sighed, his fingers contentedly untangling the knots in Ereinion’s hair.

“I see you found the bath,” Ereinion twirled a lock of his damp hair around his finger.

Erestor snorted. “We both know that bath is the only reason I ever fell into your bed in the first place.” He was feeling silly again, silly and sore and better than he thought he’d ever felt.

Ereinion, still buried deep inside him, grinned and gave a languid roll of his hips. “Oh?” he chuckled as Erestor gave an involuntary moan. “The bath, was it? Well,” and he lifted off Erestor’s body in one graceful movement. “Far be it from me to keep you unsatisfied.”

They whiled away a few luxurious hours in the bath after that, relearning and re-remembering each other with their hands and mouths and the smooth, slick planes of their bodies. Their voices echoed through the chamber, low moans and stuttering breaths and whispered _yes, like that, oh, you gorgeous, perfect thing, so beautiful for me_. Erestor watched as Ereinion struggled between his old, lonely habits, trying to hide this huge, joyful smile from his face only for it to dawn on him all over again, realizing that _yes,_ he could—he could _keep this,_ he didn’t have to hold himself back, and he blushed such a vivid red Erestor could feel it burning his skin when he pressed his face to Erestor’s chest to hide it. Erestor seated himself firmly on Ereinion’s lap, legs splayed, and lost himself in the sheer _joy_ of it, of _them,_ of them _together,_ his rocking hips sending waves up over the lip of the pool, over the floor to seep into the rugs beyond. He _danced_ on Ereinion’s cock, bouncing like a cricket until Ereinion, pushed to the breaking point, finally threw him over the lip of the pool and slammed back into him, driving hard until Erestor lost feeling in his toes and completely melted into the stone tile.

And it… it wasn’t about sex, exactly, though there had been times when it had been very much about sex. No, it was—it was what their bodies were telling each other, things that they couldn’t say out loud yet. A call and answer, an old wartime habit for the in-between hours when shouting had turned their voices to ash. _Where are you? I’m here. Are you safe? Yes. Do you love me? Always._

Ereinion mouthed at the curve of Erestor’s collarbone, lapping up to the pointed tip of his ear. Erestor kissed his shoulder, understanding _everything._

Later, fully spent, they returned to bed to listen to the rain. The storm had lessened as it came up against the mountains, the cloud’s high, ragged fingers edged with the last pink from the twilight hours. Ereinion drew back the sailcloth so they could watch, the wind and mist trotting inside like a wet hound. Then he leaned back against the pillows and headboard, established Erestor securely back on his lap, and sighed into complete, ecstatic repletion.

The flames in the lamps flickered. Erestor, his head tucked into the curve of Ereinion’s neck and shoulder, watched rapt as goosebumps burst over the rising and falling skin of Ereinion’s breast, the dampness from their bath drying. Ereinion’s arms wrapped snugly around his waist, his fingers threaded together over Erestor’s hip. Everything was hazy and slow, time counted not in seconds but in their slow breaths. Erestor felt something like… like a river, meeting the sea, everything mingling up in him. He wanted to cup his hands, drink deep of the sweet and bitter both, wanted to offer his brimming hands to Ereinion so he might lap up the water inside him as well.

“Ereinion,” he murmured.

Ereinion stirred. “Yes?” he answered, a hand lifting to lie gently on Erestor’s hair.

“We could make our own vows now, and say the vows of our people later. Would that please you?” He said, pressing his face to the pulse in Ereinion’s neck.

Elves had two kinds of vows—the first were said for the people, spoken in front of witnesses and passed down through families. Those were the vows made under Manwë and Varda, the assembled congregation of their kin, and, well, their _blood,_ their heritage, the lineage of their families. They were external vows, woven like skeins of thread to tie them in a new way to the tapestry of their people.

And then there were the vows made between lovers on their wedding night, murmured between bites of cherries with ruby red juice smearing over their lips, stained into skin. Vows lying thick on the tongue like honey, like blood. Vows spoken between souls, with none to witness but their own bodies, their own selves.

Ereinion’s hand ran light as dust over his hair, petting him softly. “Yes,” he said, his voice tender and full, like oil warmed in the palm and kneaded into aching joints. “That would please me.”

Then he turned to meet Erestor’s gaze with clear, unclouded eyes. “Do you know, beloved, that I woke from Mandos with these words on my tongue?” he said, and it was somehow a part of the vow too. “And that even before, in Dagorlad, in Imladris, even in Mithlond, I would lie next to you as you slept and say them in my heart, my mouth aching to give them wing? And then again, when I awoke from the dead, finally unshackled from the crown around my brow, I still could not say them—for how could I do such a thing, without you to hear it? And how could I dare hope you would return to me, when all you knew of my fate was buried in the sand?” his hand lifted to cup Erestor’s cheek, thumb brushing the ridge of his cheekbone. “And yet,” he whispered. “And yet you have come back to me, my love, my kindler of hope, my bringer of miracles. _You came back to me._ And now I give you my vow that no promise, no crown, no kingdom, shall ever come before you in my heart. I release myself unto you. Do with me as you will.”

Erestor, overcome, kissed him. Once, twice, and then, whispering against his mouth he said, “I’m yours, Ereinion. Forever.”

And that was it, that was all they needed to say. Ereinion kissed him again and then they lay down together, drifting. Ereinion’s hair tangled around him in a cloud, smelling of salt and incense. Erestor breathed deep of the scent, his throat pressing up against the warm silver of the cacanet, and when he breathed out he felt the heaviness of the thunder-soaked air leaving him.

Outside the storm lifted into a gentle pattering rain, the sound of it like shells rolling in the leaving tide. Erestor heard a bird, trilling somewhere in the cypress trees; and then he closed his eyes, pressed his nose to the hollow of Ereinion’s shoulder, and fell asleep.


	23. Epilogue: Strawberries

Elrond and Celebrían arrived rather earlier than she had promised- honeyed sunlight still slanting through the marbled columns of the atrium- but Erestor couldn’t find it in himself to begrudge his Lord’s insolence, no—not after he heard the weak, broken sound leaping from Ereinion’s throat at the sight of his Herald. Between one breath and the next Ereinion had Elrond caught up in his arms, the two of them laughing and weeping and shouting like two foxes rolling in the grass.

Erestor turned from them, giving them privacy, and reached out to greet Celebrían, who rushed forward to clasp his hands. “Hello,” he said, trying not to blush at the way she examined him.

“Why, Erestor,” her eyes ran appraising over his full, rich robes, midnight blue cut to reveal the caranet at his throat and the rainbow of rings at his fingers. “You have stolen my fun from me! I was all set to tease and scold my cousin, but I see he has received you handsomely.”

Glorfindel and Rog sidled up beside her, Glorfindel’s mouth held carefully in what was definitely not a smirk. “ _Most_ handsomely,” he replied, eyeing the edge of a bruise peeking out from Erestor’s neckline. Rog, following his gaze, raised a brow at Erestor.

Erestor narrowed his eyes, noting how Glorfindel’s hair looked only barely combed-though enough for decent company, and how Celebrían’s dress hung in decidedly thicker and more-covering folds around her body than it had yesterday. Rog, never one to care much, simply wore his hair loose and presumably hoped that it would hide the love-bites. It did not.

Well, so they had all had an eventful evening. That did not mean he would allow them to could _gloat._

“We are wed,” Erestor said, and enjoyed watching shock erase the smugness from their faces.

“You _what?!”_ Elrond squawked, still encircled in Ereinion’s arms. He whirled to Ereinion. “You didn’t even ask me for _permission?!”_

“Why should I ask you for permission?” Ereinion scoffed.

Elsewhere Glorfindel and Rog began whispering and giggling, and Erestor began steeling himself. Whatever it was they were planning, he was _not_ going to like it.

“Because he belongs to _my_ House!” Elrond spluttered. “You can’t just _poach_ my seneschal!”

“What do you mean?” Ereinion rolled his eyes. “I’m not _poaching_ him, I’m _marrying_ him!”

Celebrían laughed and folded her arms, arbitrating. “Erestor. To whose House do you belong now?”

And Erestor answered “Elrond’s,” at the same time Ereinion said “Mine,” and oh, _that_ threw everyone in a tizzy until Ereinion finally gave up and herded them out onto the veranda for a late brunch, bribing everyone to peacefulness with fresh oranges and strawberries, tall glasses of spiced, iced milk next to cups of strong, steaming tea, cherry jam smeared over thick slices of fried bread rolled in honey and sugared mint leaves—and in no time everyone was busy licking their fingers and laughing, sprawled out on the couches in the cool after-rain shade and full to bursting with happiness.

Their voices fluttered over the veranda like the chatter of sparrows. Elrond and Rog traded stories about Eärendil and Gondolin, pausing only to sneak a few more strawberries from Glorfindel’s bowl. Celebrían and Glorfindel’s voices joined the low music of conversation, wondering out loud how many flowers they could obtain for Glorfindel and Rog’s own wedding.

“We are _not_ having daisies at _our_ wedding,” Erestor muttered to Ereinion, his fingers skating along Ereinion’s hem.

Ereinion grimaced. “Absolutely not. Poppies?”

“Only if you plan on letting me wear _all_ the Fëanorian colors,” Erestor replied.

“ _I_ plan on no such thing, but something tells me I shall not have much say in the matter,” he said and stretched his arm out, inviting.

“Good. We understand each other, then.” Erestor gave him a little simpering smile—or tried to, save that seeing Ereinion under the high, white sunlight had the unfortunate effect of rendering him completely, sincerely happy, with not a stitch of sarcasm to be found.

Erestor took the offered invitation and tucked himself under Ereinion’s arm. The cushions piled behind them were warm from Ereinion’s body already, and Erestor, shuddering slightly, curled closer. He felt very old now, aching and frail as driftwood. His wrists, strangely, held a deep, sharp pain, and his whole head felt as if there was something inside it pushing everything else out to make room for itself. He had slept poorly the night before—nightmares coming harder than even he had predicted. Blood and fire and emptiness, vast emptiness cut through with burning silver sand.

But Ereinion had been there when he woke, and had held him close, and that was more than enough for now. 

The weariness from the journey and the long night snapped at his heels and he yawned, snuggling closer. Overhead a dragonfly droned by, and above it Erestor thought he could see the long peacock-blue glimmer of Manwë’s train, high above the clouds. Still looking for Olórin, no doubt, playing a little hide-and-seek with his most mischievous Maia. Erestor, in spite all his deepest and oldest habits, found himself smiling at the thought. Ai, did he have it in himself to forgive even the gods now? He glanced up to see the small curl in the corner of Ereinion's mouth, lifting the fine white scar in his lip. Maybe. 

It was more than he could have ever hoped, ever dreamed, and it was all _real._ All of them together, safe, laughing over breakfast with no looming threat just over the horizon—and Ereinion, his _husband,_ warm and breathing at his side, _alive._

And tomorrow Erestor would wake and it would still be real, and the day after that, and after that—

He didn’t quite believe it, even now. But he hoped he would, eventually. And after countless lifetimes filled with waiting he found he didn’t mind waiting for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all kindly for reading! If you'd like,[here's](http://peasantswhy.tumblr.com/post/175974939156/show-chapter-archive) a rebloggable link.
> 
> edit: I put a couple small edits in this chapter, just fyi.


End file.
